


Ding Dong

by katyazimazama



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race (US) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Loneliness, MAC counter! Trixie, Slow Burn, bc we know this is a klever kween, catch me researching grocery stores in America and whiteclaws, electrician/engineer! katya, mentions of domestic abuse, mentions of drug abuse/alcohol abuse, mentions of mental health issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:08:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27661123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katyazimazama/pseuds/katyazimazama
Summary: Trixie is living in a new city, trying to stay afloat and contend with chronic loneliness. Katya is just trying to fix her boiler.
Relationships: Trixie Mattel/Katya Zamolodchikova
Comments: 72
Kudos: 106





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to make it clear that I started writing this several weeks ago, before Katya's ding dong became a thing. Will be looking into intellectual property rights. (I haven't written for a long time, so am a bit rusty.)

There’s a pounding in her head, so loud and so painful that she’s surprised the residents of the apartment below can’t hear it. She cracks one eye open, wincing at the sunlight that comes in through her bedroom window, and moves her tongue around her mouth. It still tastes of alcohol and cigarettes.

She only smokes socially, mind.

Tapping the screen on her phone reveals that it’s only just gone 9. She only got in at 3 last night and doesn’t remember when she actually got to sleep. _So why the hell is she awake so early?_

She doesn’t have to wait long to find out why, as the loud _Ding dong_ from her doorbell rings through the flat. It’s followed by several loud thuds on her front door. Whoever is trying to get into her apartment at 9 on a Sunday - the Lord’s day, need she remind you - is rude as hell. So she shuts her eyes, presses her head back into the pillow and tries to force herself back to sleep again.

It feels like mere seconds pass before her attempts to sleep are interrupted. _Ding dong,_ rings through the flat once more. The accompanying thuds are heavier this time, impatient. 

_If it’s really important, they’ll try again tomorrow,_ she thinks.

_Ding dong._ The knocks on her door are positively angry, now. 

“Do you need to get that?” A voice croaks from the other side of the bed. Trixie almost gets whiplash from the speed at which she cranes her neck to see who the voice belongs to. She does _not_ remember bringing someone else back home with her.

But, lo and behold, there’s someone there.

“Adore - I” Trixie stops, with a sharp pain in her temple from moving too quickly. Perhaps it isn’t the best idea to let someone know you have no memory of them. She sighs, trying to coming to terms with the fact that there is someone else in her bed. “Yeah, probably.”

“Go on then, birthday girl.” Adore smiles at her, pulling the covers up to her chin. Her long black hair lays scattered across the pillow.

_Right_. Birthday. It’s her birthday. They went out last night to celebrate her birthday.

“I…” Trixie starts to say before the person on the other side of the door decides to make their presence known once again.

_Ding dong._

Followed by what she can only assume is a medieval battering ram used on her poor front door.

“ _Fuck this_.” She hisses, throwing the covers off herself.

“You might want to put some clothes on.” Adore giggles, which gives Trixie a fairly good indication of what they got up to last night.

“Close your eyes.” Trixie snaps, squinting in an attempt to offset her long-sightedness as she tries to locate something acceptable to wear amongst the mess on the floor. She spies a thin dressing gown and quickly shimmies into it, after shaking off a foundation brush and one lone earring.

Muffled giggles come from underneath her bed covers as she stumbles her way over her bedroom floor, a floor littered with the debris of a night out. Her head throbs as she moves, and she thinks she’ll be lucky if she can make it to the front door without throwing up.

What possessed her to drink so much? To smoke so much? _To bring Adore home with her?_ She has a sneaking suspicion that the girl taking up half of her bed is partly responsible for her misdemeanours last night.

The front door feels like it’s miles away (although the floor plan of her apartment could attest to the opposite) but she makes it just in time to hear another set of thuds on the door. She attempts to fix a stern expression on her face, probably coming out in a grimace, as she slides the lock and yanks the door open.

A woman is on the other side, her hand clenched in a fist and ready to knock on the door again. Long blonde hair falls down her shoulders, and Trixie doesn’t need her glasses to see the split ends. Fire engine red lipstick adorns her lips, _too red for 9am on a Sunday,_ the other girls at the MAC counter would say. Black tattoos snake up the exposed parts of her arms, and Trixie wonders where they stop.

She’s so pretty it hurts.

But that could just be the hangover.

“I…can I help you?” Trixie manages to croak out. The other woman lets out a small laugh, but she doesn’t seem amused.

“I’m here to fix the heating. Shannie didn’t tell you I was coming?” She asks. Her voice is low, and slow. It sounds like Trixie’s after she smokes, socially. For a second Trixie breathes a sigh of relief, this woman has gotten the wrong flat. In a few minutes, Trixie can get back into her bed, shut her eyes and sleep off this headache.

“Shannie?” She asks, hand already tightening on the door handle and getting ready to close it.

“Sorry - Shannon. Landlord?” The woman on the other side of the door frame cocks an eyebrow.

_Shit._ Yes. Heating. Electrician. 8:30am Sunday. She’d forgotten it was her birthday when she agreed to the appointment, getting sick of waking up with cold toes.

But this woman looks too attractive to fix her heating.

“Yes, shit, sorry. Forgot.” She says, cursing herself.

“Ok, well, it feels like I’ve been waiting out here since the last Ice Age.” The other woman sighs. “Can I come in now?”

“Of course.” Trixie swallows, moving aside to create space for the woman to come in. They brush against each other, ever so slightly, and Trixie gets a waft of peppermint gum. She dreads to think what her own breath smells like.

She sets down her bag with a clang, the tools inside jostling against each other, and casts her eyes around the apartment.

“That’s a lot of empty bottles.” She says, almost absentmindedly, as she lets out a slow breath.

Trixie follows her gaze around the apartment, to take in the spectacle of her apartment after a night out. Sadly, it appears the damage wasn’t limited to her bedroom. Embarrassment bubbles in her chest, threatening to show itself on her face.

Before the veins in her cheeks can betray her, however, the other woman turns to her, flustered.

“Shit, sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I meant..well, never mind.” She says, her words tumbling out of her mouth quicker than Trixie’s alcohol-addled brain can keep up with. She wrings her hands, hands that look older than her face. “I’m not judging you.”

There’s a silence between them. Trixie can’t think of anything but how attractive this woman is.

“I shouldn’t have said it loud.” She sighs.

“It’s fine.” Trixie says. Her tone of voice comes out drier than she was intending, but it still has the desired effect. The other woman loosens her shoulders, and the frown eases from her forehead. She’s beautiful.

“Before I can insult you more, where’s the boiler?”

_Right, boiler._

“It’s in the kitchen.” Trixie says, motioning to the door to the right. She’s very conscious about the way her dressing gown moves when she walks, the skin that will be exposed if she tries to walk much more in it. _Curse those 30 pounds she gained after moving here._

The other woman squats down to unzip her bag, and the tools rattling around send sharp pains through Trixie’s temple. But not too sharp to stop her from appreciating the other woman’s thighs, previously loose dungarees looking tight against her muscles.

_Control yourself,_ she tells herself.

“You can go do whatever you want.” The other woman says, rummaging around in her bag. “I don’t need adult supervision.” She looks over her shoulder with a smile.

Trixie takes a deep breath.

“Great. Let me know if you need anything.” She says, before forcing herself to leave. Having to go back into her bedroom isn’t an enticing prospect, not when all she wants to do is wallow in her hungover state _alone,_ and not with an over-excited puppy in the form of a messy, marijuana _obsessed_ woman. 

“Are we doing anything for your birthday, babe?” Adore mumbles, once she gets back into her bedroom. She’s still stretched out in her bed, legs tangled in the bedsheets. Trixie shuts the door behind her and flops down onto the bed next to her.

_My plans involve getting you out of my bed and out of the front door,_ Trixie thinks. But she can’t say that out loud.

“Someone’s come to fix the heating.” She says, instead. “Need to stay in, sadly.”

She’s not sad; the thought of leaving her house in her current state makes her stomach churn.

“We could order in?” Adore says, rubbing her eyes. “I’m fucking starving.”

Trixie is far from starving. Her stomach is still protesting after the night before.

“I don’t feel great.” She says, flatly. Hoping that it comes out as apologetic. Hoping that Adore can take a hint.

There’s a big, fat, pause between them.

“I’ll take that as my cue to leave, then.” Adore says, a small smirk on her face.

“Sorry.” Trixie shrugs.

She’s not really that sorry.

********

Several hours have passed since she woke up. During which time she’s managed to coax Adore out of her bed and sneak her out of the front door, choke down a couple of painkillers (she’s not a good swallower) and started to clear up the debris on her floor.

Her vision still sways slightly when she moves too quickly, and her ankle is sore from a mysterious injury last night, but she tidies, tidies, and tidies. When her hands are busy, her mind is busy. And when her mind is busy it can’t wander, can’t get lost in deep, dark recesses. Dark recesses of her mind that always seem worse in a hangover.

She saves the bed till last. The side Adore slept on looks like a bed that has never been made since the day it was bought, and dark mascara stains the pillowcase. She puts on new sheets, a new duvet cover, and shoves the used sheets into her already overflowing laundry bag. It’s only when sorting out the pillows that she falters.

One pillow for her side of the bed. That’s easy. Another pillow for the other side of the bed. A side of the bed that has been empty since the day she moved in, save for last night. A side of the bed that is a constant, painful reminder of how crushingly lonely she is.

_Pull yourself together,_ she chastises herself.

A shower helps clear her head. With the boiler still on the fritz, the water is close to freezing as it runs down her body. At least focusing on not getting hypothermia takes valuable brain cells away from a litany of other thoughts she could be having. Like the fact that her mom still hasn’t messaged happy birthday, not hearing from her siblings for months, the nights she’s spent crying herself to sleep recently and the potential tears she’s going to shed tonight over one - or two - cans of whiteclaw.

_Hey, it’s her birthday._

Not all good things last forever, though, and she’s hit by a fresh wave of sadness as she wraps herself tightly in a large towel. But her moping is interrupted by a loud:

_“Shit!”_ Coming from the kitchen. She catches sight of herself in the mirror, red eyes that aren’t just from a freezing cold shower.

_You’re pathetic_ , she tells her reflection.

“Everything alright?” She shouts, sliding her feet into her pink slippers. The bathroom floor could do with a clean.

“Never been better!” The woman who’s supposed to be fixing her boiler calls out.

Before leaving the bathroom, she checks her reflection once more in the mirror. Red cheeks match her puffy red eyes, and there’s a large spot on her chin. She thinks of the woman in her kitchen and, with one hand already on the door handle, she changes her mind and reaches instead for the mascara on the shelf.

_Utterly pathetic._

“Hey, um…Tracey?” She hears, once she finally steps out of the bathroom. She’s almost done a full face of makeup, and she feels slightly more alive now. Cold, wet hair drips water down her back, and she clutches a towel to her body.

_Trixie._

“Yeah?” She calls out.

“Can I have a tea, if you don’t mind?”

She doesn’t have any tea.

Trixie shrugs back into her dressing gown before making her way out into the living room. She finds the other woman with a spanner in her hand, looking intently at a magazine left on the small coffee table.

“I don’t have any tea.” Trixie says. “But I have coffee?”

The other woman grimaces.

“Normally I’d love coffee.” She shrugs. “But it’s been giving me god-awful shits recently, wouldn’t want to put your bathroom through that.”

_Thanks for the information,_ Trixie wants to say. Or, _that’s a shame_ , she wants to say. Or even just a simple, _sorry._

“I can go get some tea?” She hears herself say. _Why is she offering to do this?_ “If you’re gonna be here for a while…”

The other woman’s face lights up.

“That would be amazing.” She starts to rummage in the front pocket of her denim dungarees, a screwdriver getting in the way of her hands. “I will be here for most of the day, unfortunately. Here, let me give you some money.” She says, fishing out a crumpled up ten dollar bill and thrusting it towards Trixie. Her hands shake, slightly.

“It’s fine.” Trixie can feel the corners of her lips beginning to turn upwards into a smile. “Is it ok to leave you here alone?” She asks, before realising what that sounded like.

"Do you mean, will I run off with your $30 microwave or decade old TV if I’m left unsupervised?” The other woman jumps in, quick as a wink.

“That’s not what I meant -“

“I know, I’m kidding.” She interrupts Trixie, a cocky grin on her face. “Besides, Shannon’s my sister. Reckon it would be awfully easy for the police to take me down given that she knows all myregular haunts.”

_Her Landlord’s sister_ throws Trixie, slightly. Trixie’s met her Landlord, several times. And they are _nothing_ alike. Perhaps one of them was adopted.

“I’m surprised you didn’t lead with that.”

“It’s not something I’m proud of.” She shrugs. “Given that I am morally opposed to the rentier class.”

Trixie blinks. She doesn’t know what that is.

“I don’t know what that is.”

“Landlords, charging rent.” It’s the other woman’s turn to blink, now.

“Right.” Trixie inhales.

“Right.” The other woman exhales.

No one speaks for a few seconds, a silence filled only by the clock on her wall. It’s still an hour late after she never adjusted it to daylight savings time. She figures she might as well leave it until the next one comes along.

“I’ll go in a second.” Trixie says, to break the quiet more than anything else.

“Maybe put some clothes on, first.” The other woman says, with a wink. Trixie feels a deep blush spread across her face, and she tightens the belt on her dressing gown.

“Thanks for the advice.” Is all she manages to say, and turns around to leave the room. “My name is Trixie, by the way. Not Tracey.” She shoots over her shoulder.

“I’m Katya.”

******

The air in Boston is crisp, a sharp slap in the face to her hungover state. Yellow leaves crunch beneath her boots as she marches to the nearest 7/11. She does need this heating fixed soon.

There’s a series of texts from Adore on her phone that she’s decidedly ignoring, as country music flows through her headphones. She has her music loud, a bit too loud if you asked her mom, but it’s almost loud enough to drown out the voices in her head.

Almost.

It feels like there is a cavernous pit in her stomach as she makes her way to the shops. She’d like to pretend this feeling is a side effect of all the alcohol last night, but she knows it’s not. It’s a feeling that’s present even when she hasn’t drunk for days (although, since she moved to Boston drinking has become an old, familiar friend).

Her 25th birthday, and the only messages on her phone are from a girl she doesn’t even like that much.

She pushes away those thoughts, again, as she pushes open the door to the shop. The bell might ring above her head, but she can’t hear it over the music playing in her ears. _You’ll deafen yourself!_ Her mom would say if she were here. But she’s not here, so Trixie can just go ahead and deafen herself.

She doesn’t like thinking about her mom.

So instead she changes the train tracks in her mind and thinks of Katya. _What kind of tea would she like? Is she ginger? Green? Fruit? Or - God forbid - normal tea?_

To play it safe, she reaches for a box of normal tea and a box of green tea. Pay day is next weekend, thankfully, and she feels pretty confident that Adore was buying her drinks all night.

She should probably reply to her at some point.

It takes two attempts before the card reader accepts her card. A childhood spent watching her mom’s credit card get routinely declined has helped prepare her for a life of living pay cheque to pay cheque, but the word _decline_ still stops her heart for a second. Thoughts of surviving off of plain toast and instant noodles for the rest of the month flash through her mind, along with the thought of having to explain to an outrageously good looking electrician why she hasn’t got any tea for her.

_Stop it._

She opens the door upon her return to find Katya squatting in her living room, muttering to herself with her tools spread out in front of her.

“I’ve got normal tea and green tea.” She says, as a way of announcing her entry to the apartment. The bag from the grocery store is swinging in her hand as the door shuts behind her. She’s trying not to use single use plastic, but it’s her birthday today.

“Thank you so much!” Katya looks up, a deep-set frown changing into a wide smile. She has really good teeth, and Trixie becomes conscious of her own teeth. 

“Lost something?”

“Nothing too important.” The frown is back on her forehead. “I just wish I wouldn’t lose things, ya know?”

There’s a gentle hum now coming from the boiler in her kitchen.

“Sounds like it’s starting to work?”

“It’s gonna take a couple more hours, I’m afraid.”

“No problem.”

Katya goes back into the kitchen, and a few seconds later Trixie hears the rumble of her kettle starting.

_Make yourself at home_ , she thinks, before tracing Katya’s footsteps into the kitchen. It’s tiny - and would be tiny even by New York standards, as Adore kindly reminds her every time she’s over. She doesn’t mind it too much, though. Before she moved, a kitchen with enough room to bake in was a must, now she realises that there’s no one for her to bake for, anyway.

But what it does mean is that the two of them are quickly getting in each others’ way, bumping shoulders together as Trixie gets mugs out of her cupboard. The plastic bag rustles loudly as she takes the boxes of tea bags out of it, drawing Katya’s focus away from the boiler and onto her. The kettle continues to boil as Katya stares at her, intently.

“Everything alright?” Trixie asks, after Katya says nothing. It seems to snap her out of her reverie.

“I was going to make a joke about single use plastic, but I stopped myself.” Her voice sounds far away, even though she’s right there.

“Why did you stop yourself?”

“Because there are millionaires and billionaires, financial advisors and lobbyists, all around crooks, that are a lot worse for the environment than Miss Trixie…”

“Mattel?” Trixie prompts, as Katya trails off.

“Than Miss Trixie Mattel using a plastic bag.”

Trixie isn’t sure how to respond to that.

She never used to be like this, before moving to Boston. Speechless wasn’t a word that featured in her vocabulary, routinely getting in trouble at school, work, and with her parents for her proclivity for _never fucking shutting up_ (as her step dad would say) _._ Now her conversation skills feel rusty, out of practice and out of sync.

“Green tea?” She asks, instead of addressing what Katya said.

“How did you know?” Katya smiles, and it’s a smile that seems like they’ve been friends for years. It stops Trixie dead in her tracks. “Oh! I know, no one with this many tattoos drinks normal tea.”

“That could be it.” Trixie replies, ripping open the box of tea. She tries to focus on pouring water for Katya, and not how close she is to a _very attractive_ human being right now. Her hands shake, slightly, as she holds the kettle, heavy with hot water.

“Hangover?”

She’ll run with that explanation.

“A little.”

“Oh to be young.” Katya sighs, picking up the mug when Trixie’s finished filling it up. She takes a sip, and Trixie would bet that there’s a red lipstick stain on the rim now. “Mmm. Thanks.”

They make eye contact. Katya’s eyes are a quiet blue, too gentle to be piercing.

“Right, well. I should get back to work.” Katya clears her throat, and motions her head towards the boiler, now making a small cacophony of noises.

That’s Trixie’s cue to leaven the room, which she does almost reluctantly. She settles into the sofa in her living room. It’s a small sofa, slightly sagging in the middle but it’s the best she could afford when she moved here. She puts the TV on and keeps the volume low, quiet enough to hear Katya tinkering away in the kitchen.

The Real Housewives of New York plays out quietly in front of her. She’s seen this episode at least twice before.

“You’re not a Boston native, are you?” Katya calls out, as a group of women on the screen in front of her argue around a large table. It’s been a while since Trixie hung out with a group of people.

Everyone she’s met in Boston has eventually asked her that question.

“Milwaukee. Or, near it at least.” Trixie calls back, watching a drink get thrown on the TV in front of her. She watching the fall out on the TV screen before continuing. “Lived near a reservation until I was 18, then I moved to Chicago.” That’s more information than Katya asked for, but it feels good to talk.

“I’m not Boston, either.” Katya replies. _Your accent would disagree,_ Trixie almost says. “Marlborough. It’s about an hours drive from here. Boring little town. Used to like imagining I was from Salem instead.”

Trixie lets out a huff of amusement, imagining Katya in colonial dress, having her fate decided between being dunked in a lake or burnt at the stake.

“Don’t think you would’ve faired very well back then.”

“Oh I don’t know about that.” Katya’s tone is playful when she replies, and Trixie now imagines her in denim dungarees in her kitchen, winking. “I have my womanly wiles.”

Their conversation trails off after that, and Trixie finds herself struggling to stay awake. At some point as the afternoon goes on, she doses off completely. Her dreams are scattered, and uncomfortable. Her step-dad features, like normal.

Eventually she’s woken up by a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“I’m all done now, Trixie.” Katya says, softly.

Trixie’s eyes slowly open, and she quickly wipes a small dribble down her chin away with the back of her hand. For the first time in a while, her apartment feels _warm._ She clears her throat.

“Thank you.”

“Not a problem.” Katya shrugs. She’s moved to sit on the floor in front of her tool bag, legs crossed over each other. There’s no method to the way she puts her tools back in her bag. “I’ll invoice Shannon, give her a ring if you have any more problems with it.”

_I’d rather give you a ring,_ Trixie thinks, as she sits up on the sofa.

“Will do.” Is what she says, instead. It’s pitch black outside now, and condensation is beginning to form at the edges of her windows.

Katya groans quietly as she stands up, picking her bag up with her.

“I’ll be off then.” She says, giving Trixie a small smile. “Thanks for the tea.”

“Not a problem.” Trixie shrugs.

She’s still groggy from sleep as they make their way over to her front door, Katya attempting to multitask by shrugging a on a big coat as she moves. There’s any number of things Trixie could say to her before she leaves. _Can I get your number? Would you like to go for a drink? I’ve just put new bed sheets on if that’s what you’re in to?_ Maybe a couple of months ago she would’ve asked something along those lines. Now, she doesn’t say anything but a thanks and a goodbye.

The door shuts with a click, and she slides the lock back into place before she can forget.

The TV is still on quietly in the background, moved on to another type of reality programme. The clock keeps ticking loudly, still an hour behind, and the boiler is making its shiny new presence known with a low hum.

She’s alone.

And she thinks she might be in love.


	2. Chapter 2

Everything that could have gone wrong this past week, has gone wrong. She’s maxed out both credit cards, her bank account is now in the red, and she doesn’t even know how it happened (maybe it has something to do with shoving her head in the sand at the very mention of a direct debit). Waking up on time seems to have become a foreign concept to her body this week, too, with most mornings spent frantically smudging lipstick off her teeth and mascara from her eyelids as she stumbles into work, at least half an hour late.

This morning was the icing on the cake of a shitty week. A phone call from her mom - left unanswered - startled her to the point of spilling her coffee down her top.

_Karma perhaps,_ she thought, given that she chose to spend 5 dollars on a coffee and ignored the homeless man sat outside the store. She walked into the department store with a brown stain on her white top, not earning her any favours with her manager.

_Late again, makeup looks terrible, hairs out of place…_ Trixie could swear that woman had a pull chord in her back with a list of insults for Trixie, ready to reel off one after another like a robot.

_Fuck this_ she thinks, as one more suburban mom walks away without buying anything.

“Bad mood?” Her co-worker, Aja, asks. It’s only then that Trixie realises she’s spoken out loud.

She watches the woman walk away, with no care in the world. No care for the way she’d wasted 20 minutes of Trixie’s time, the way that the commission on the makeup she could’ve bought would’ve paid for Trixie’s groceries for the next week.

She’s being petulant, but she doesn’t care. The way she sees it, she deserves to be petulant.

“Yes.” She says, with a self-righteousness she only gets when she’s angry. “Fuck this job, fuck this expensive city, fuck the people in it -“

“Girl, this is just Boston.” Aja interrupts when it becomes clear that Trixie isn’t stopping anytime soon. “And you’ve been in a bad mood all week.”

“And fuck you!” Trixie smiles a smile that isn’t a smile and turns her back to her co-worker, scanning the shop floor for potential customers. She hears Aja whisper _Jesus_ from behind her, but can’t find it in herself to feel bad.

A mop of bright blonde hair catches her eye, bobbing up and down the aisles. All her negative thoughts of Boston vanish, as she feels her hopes raise in a way that has become very familiar this past week. The woman’s face turns towards her, and it’s not her. But before she can feel the tinge of disappointment that also become very familiar this past week, a hand grips her arm.

“ _Customers,_ Trixie.” Aja all but hisses. “Go talk to those girls while I deal with this woman.”

Trixie follows Aja’s gaze to spot two barely teenage girls, giggling as they fiddle with the lipsticks on the other side of the counter. The woman on Aja’s side is already looking intently at the expensive blushes, her hand full of swatches. No commission for her, then.

“Jesus Christ, what is up with you girl?” Aja asks once they’re done with their respective customer. She rips an empty cardboard box apart, the noise loud and abrasive against the generic department store music playing in the background. _Not in front of the customers,_ Trixie imagines her manager saying.

“What do you mean?” Trixie tucks some stray hairs behind her ear, feigning ignorance.

“You’ve been in a shit mood all week.” Aja sighs.

All Trixie can do is shrug in response.

“Just a bad week.”

“Nu-uh.” Aja shakes her head, furiously. “Not having that. Spill.”

_Spill._ Trixie’s palms start to sweat at the thought of telling someone about her family issues, about her embarrassing financial worries. But she gets the feeling Aja won’t be content with a story about jabbing her eye with a mascara wand the other morning.

“I’m not letting this go.” She says. She’s pushy, pushy in a way that Trixie doesn’t like.

But she’s not about to tell Aja that.

Trixie takes a deep breath in, but hasn’t even decided what she’s going to say.

“I’ve met someone.” She says, exhaling quickly. Aja looks delighted as she slaps her hands on her cheeks, almost like something out of a cartoon.

“How many dates?” She grips Trixie’s arm, excitedly this time. Her long acrylic nails dig into her skin, and Trixie subtly tries to pull her arm back from her grasp.

“Well, no, we haven’t exactly gone on a date yet.” She backtracks, thinking back to Katya in her kitchen. This causes Aja to raise a finely plucked eyebrow, and Trixie clears her throat. “They came round to do some repairs.”

Finally, Aja lets go of her arm as she leans back, confusion written all over her face.

“A repair man?” She asks, incredulous. Trixie thinks of the way Katya’s dungarees lay on her body, the blonde hair that ran down her shoulders like a waterfall. Her plump, red lips.

Nothing about her was manly.

“A repair woman.” Trixie sighs.

Realisation dawns on Aja’s face, giving Trixie flashbacks to every new time she had to come out when she was 18. She’s not sure what she was expecting Aja to say next, but, she wasn’t expecting this.

“You know, speaking of women, I heard that you and Adore had a good night last week.” She smirks. “I didn’t know you were into girls, thought she was lying.”

Trixie should’ve known that it wouldn’t stay between the two of them.

“It’s nothing.” She says dryly, picking up an empty cardboard box and joining Aja in ripping it apart. There’s something quite therapeutic about this part of the job.

“I think she really likes you.” Aja looks at her, pointedly.

“She barely knows me.”

Aja shrugs.

“That’s Adore for you.”

*****

The door clicks shut behind her and she slides the lock closed, not that she has much for anyone to steal, anyway. Her bag drops down onto the floor and she kicks her shoes off, with little disregard for where any of these items end up. The rest of her flat is as messy as her doorway, topped off with a floor that desperately needs a hover and a bin that is starting to attract fruit flies (even in the beginning of winter). She tells herself that she’s too busy to clean, picking up extra shifts where ever possible (but really it’s just tough to clean when you have no one to clean for).

It’s completely out of character for her, having spent the best part of her teenage years cleaning up after her mom and siblings. After moving to Boston, though, she’s not too sure what her character is anymore.

She’s starving, but one glance at the stack of washing up she has to do in the kitchen is almost enough to vanish her appetite completely. Reaching the bottom of her overdraft has never seemed so tempting, as she gets out her phone to order food on post mates instead.

As soon as she’s seen to one her needs, she sees to another one: cracking open the bottle of wine snuggled at the bottom of her bag. The drinks aisle at the 7/11 is becoming a good friend, at this point. For a brief moment she even debates not using a glass, but that strikes her as a little too desperate.

_“I wouldn’t be surprised if we never saw Denise Richards again.”_ Comes from the TV, as the Real Housewives plays on the screen. She’s already seen the episode twice and is using it more as a way to fill the silence as she spends another evening scrolling through her phone. The remnants of her takeaway are scattered on the coffee table in front of her, and she’s reached her third glass of wine. The bottle sits on the floor beside her sofa, ready to be used again.

Three glasses of wine is a dangerous amount for her, past happily tipsy and venturing into drunk. She never claimed to be a heavyweight when it came to alcohol.

She has facebook up, and her thumb hovers over the search bar. She takes another sip of wine, before typing:

_Katya_

Thousands of results. _Great._

She has a vague memory of her landlord’s surname on the tenancy agreement, so attempts to add:

Zamolo…

To the search bar.

Katya Zamolodchikova comes up, with still a few hundred results. It only takes a second for her to locate the right one, though, as it stands out like a sore thumb. The sequins on her dress in the profile picture catch her eye first, and the bright blonde bangs give the game away in the end.

Another sip of wine and she’s clicking into Katya’s profile, careful that her fingers heavy from alcohol don’t click on anything they shouldn’t.

_Private._

She can’t see anything apart from the profile picture and feels a sudden urge to throw her phone across the room. It’s only the lack of money for a new one that really prevents her from doing so.

Frustrated, she turns the TV off and sinks back into the sofa, propping her legs up on the arm rest. Cradling her wine glass to her chest, she shuts her eyes tight.Her hand drifts down to her pyjama pants, and slowly slides her fingers between her thighs. Her breathing is loud against the quiet of her apartment. There’s only one person she’s been able to think of in this position recently.

_Katya._

Trixie’s mind goes straight to her red lips, what she would like those lips to do to her and the parts of her body she’d like them to touch. She imagines the parts of Katya’s body that she hasn’t seen yet, like the tattoos that snake up her arms and the muscles in her thighs. Her breathing gets louder as she gets closer, and she lets out a moan.

_You’re pathetic_ , a voice in the back of her head hisses. Her eyes snap open, and she’s confronted by her reality of being in an apartment on her own, a wine glass rimmed with red stains clutched at her breast. One hand is still nestled between her thighs, but the mood is gone.

_Pathetic._

The red wine stains around her lips don’t look dissimilar to a clown’s lips as she stares in the bathroom mirror later, having given up on the rest of her evening. Her head feels heavy and, even though it’s only 10pm and she doesn’t need to wake up early tomorrow, her bed is seeming more and more inviting.

A headache is threatening to creep up on her (again, she never claimed to be a heavyweight when it comes to alcohol) so she chokes down two painkillers before enveloping herself in her duvet.

She’s never been quick to fall asleep. Late night screaming matches between her mom and her step-dad did nothing to aid in that, but even living alone isn’t a remedy. Her mind seems to move at a hundred miles an hour as soon as the lights go off, and tonight is no different.

She’s never been patient, either, so she stretches out her hand to find her phone, and pulls it off the charger to bring it closer to her. The light hurts her eyes, but it’s better than being left alone with the thoughts in her head.

Her facebook is still on Katya’s profile and she sighs, deeply. Quickly, without giving herself any time to have any rational thoughts or question what she’s doing, she switches to her iMessages and brings up her conversation with her landlord.

_I have a problem with the heating again_

Her thumbs tap at lightning speed against the keyboard, before stopping herself and deleting the message; she can hardly take a hammer to an entire boiler. Her mind runs through all the electrics in her apartment, stopping short when she realises that she can’t call for an electrician because of a faulty kettle.

_I think the apartment’s intercom is broken_

She ends up typing, and presses send before the sensible (albeit small) part of her brain has a say in the matter. Hoping that her landlord doesn’t have many follow up questions, she drops her phone lazily back onto the bed.

It feels like an eternity has passed, but also no time at all, when her phone pings. Expecting to see a text from her landlord, her heart almost stops when she actually sees the message.

_Hey Trixie it’s Katya, I repaired your heating last week. Shannon said you have a problem with the intercom and gave me your number. When is good to come?_

She texts back immediately, her heart thudding so loud it could set off the car alarms downstairs.

_I’m home all day tomorrow?_

_Ok, I’ll be over at about 11._

Trixie’s mind is spinning. _I repaired your heating last week,_ she said, as if Trixie hasn’t spent an entire week thinking about her. 11 o’ clock. Tomorrow morning.

And she has an intercom she needs to break.

****

The first thought that crosses her mind when she wakes up, is that the painkillers didn’t work. Her second thought is that she needs to do some serious damage to the intercom before Katya comes over. Last, but not least, is the realisation that her apartment is close to a pigsty right now (and she would know, having grown up mere miles away from the pig wrestling capital of the US).

She lets out a loud groan, rubbing her face. A few flecks of mascara that she didn’t manage to wash off the night before come off on her hand, and she groans louder, realising that she will also need a shower before Katya arrives.

The alarm goes off on her phone. 9am. She’s could almost cry, but she doesn’t. In the grand scheme of things, there are much worse things she could cry about. Instead, she slides out of bed and staggers into the shower.

The hot water brings her back to her senses, and soon she’s ready to begin the cleanup. This is easier said than done, she realises as she takes in her living room. Her traitorous body almost protests every move, with aching limbs and a head that just wants to go straight back to bed, but she eventually manages to turn her apartment into one that could pass for _having her life together_ and turns her attention to the intercom on the wall.

She’s not an electrician herself. Her science results at school were dismal, and her technology teachers could have had clumps of hair missing due to the stress of teaching her. Which might explain why she ends up staring at the exposed wire that leads into the intercom with a pair of kitchen scissors. They’re pretty blunt and haven’t been used for much else than cutting up oven-cooked pizzas. But she’s conscious of the dwindling time before Katya is due to arrive and so, with one eye shut, she makes a tiny incision in the wire, tearing away at the plastic covering slightly until the copper inside is exposed. After a deep breath, she snips that too. 

With 5 minutes to spare she sits down on the arm rest of her sofa, and stops just short of twiddling her thumbs.

_Hi, Katya._ She thinks of herself saying, as she opens the door to an imaginary Katya. But maybe first names are too personal.

_Hey._

To douchey.

_Hello._

Who even says hello anymore?

_Thanks for coming._

Creepy.

A set of knocks at the door snaps her out of her imagination, and she jumps up out of her seated position before freezing. _Play it cool,_ a voice in the back of her head almost hisses. So she freezes, heart thumping, before another round of knocks echoes around her living room.

She smooths her hair and takes a deep breath before opening the door, attempting to plaster a casual smile on her face.

“Hi, Katya.” She blurts out, before even opening the door the whole way. The woman on the other side of the door lets out a beaming smile. Her hair is up in a high pony tail this time, but her lipstick is as red as ever.

“Waited downstairs for 5 minutes before I remembered the intercom was broken!” Katya says, making herself laugh in the process. “Mind if I come in?”

_Laugh,_ Trixie reminds herself, before letting out a small chuckle that hopefully gives off the impression that she is cool, loose and fun. In reality, she feels absolutely none of those things.

“Of course.”

She backs away from the door to let Katya come in, and once more their bodies brush against each other. There’s no large duffel bag this time, but a backpack hanging off one shoulder instead. It’s covered in enamel pins, but Katya moves too fast for her to get a good look at them.

“Won’t take as long as last time, hopefully.” She says, swinging her bag down and dumping it on the floor. Trixie’s stomach drops, ever so slightly.

“Oh? Are you doing anything afterwards?” She asks before she can stop herself. _That’s none of your business,_ the little voice in the back of her head chastises her.

“Several series I want to watch on Netflix.” Katya grins at her, before turning to the wall. “This is the intercom?”

Trixie follows her gaze to the white, plastic box on the wall. She swallows, thinking of the scissors tucked away in her cutlery drawer like evidence from the scene of a crime.

“Yep.”

Several seconds pass between them in silence as Katya stares at the wire, the exposed copper threads just starting to fray. She gently reaches a hand up to it, causing her sleeve to drop down and show the beginnings of her tattoos.

“It, um, hasn’t been working for a few days.” Trixie says, trying to break the silence more than anything. “The wire’s been looking like this for a while. Maybe it just gave up?”

At that, Katya turns to her. One perfectly plucked eyebrow is cocked up, in an expression that mirrors the way Trixie’s mom used to look at her after catching her in an obvious lie. Finally, Katya speaks.

“You know, there are dating apps for this.” She says, and her lips purse as if she’s holding in a smile.

Trixie clears her throat.

“For getting an electrician?” She asks, hoping that the two acting classes and three improve sessions (that’s the white in her) she took in college are able to pull her through this scene they’re apparently performing together.

“The wires are cut.” Katya’s eyebrow raises even further. “You’ve either got very neat and intelligent mice or…someone’s cut your wires.”

Trixie clears her throat again. If this were a crime scene, she’d be walking away in handcuffs.

“If it wasn’t you who cut them… I’d suggest packing your bags and moving to Demoine because honey, someone’s out to get ya.” Katya smirks.

This isn’t how it was supposed to go. But then, how was it supposed to go? Her grand scheme started and ended with creating an excuse to get Katya over to her flat. She’s never been much of a planner, evident in the way she packed up for Boston without a job, accommodation, orany friends waiting for her on the other side. But now she feels like she’s been thrown in at the deep end. Dunked in a pool full of sharks, and Katya’s the shark. A very attractive shark.

She never was good at swimming, either.

She doesn’t say anything, but she can feel a blush creeping up her cheeks. As the seconds pass, Katya’s smile begins to fade from her face. They end up speaking at the same time.

“Sorry, I…”

“And if it was me who cut them…?” They both trail off. Katya blinks, slowly. There’s an expression on her face now that Trixie can’t decipher. Her heart feels like it’s about to pound right out of her chest. “What if I asked…if you would like to go on a date?”

Almost as if she’s in pain, Katya scrunches up her face and scratches her head. Wispy blonde strands of hair come out of her high pony tail. After several beats, she says:

“Then I’d say I’m with someone, sorry.”

She genuinely does sound apologetic, and it fills Trixie with a sense of self-loathing that she was hoping to leave behind in Milwaukee.

“Right.” She swallows. The blush now set on her face could probably rival the new MAC red lipstick they got in earlier in the week. “I kinda still need you to fix this wiring.”

“Sure. Call out fee is 50 bucks by the way.”

“Uh -“

“I’m kidding, it’s on me.”


	3. Chapter 3

“What are you doing tonight?” Adore whispers to her. They’re stuck in staff training, watching a video on health and safety with the lights in the room down low. The temperature must be set fairly high because Trixie can feel herself getting drowsy. She’d tried to sit away from Adore this time, but she’s stuck to her like a shadow. “And don’t tell me you’re broke, because I know we both just got paid.”

“I need that money for rent, for food. You know, to survive.” Trixie says, under her breath. “Can’t all live with our moms.”

“My mom would let you move in, too, if you wanted.”

This makes Trixie let out a loud, sharp laugh. _A difficult laugh,_ her mom had always said about her.The heads in front of them swivel to look at her, and she whispers _sorry, sorry._

“She would.” Adore insists, once everyone in the room has settled back into their original state of boredom.

“You’ve known me for a couple of months,” Trixie whispers back, dryly. “For all you know, I could be a murderer.”

“Murderer or not, I’m going out with some friends tonight. You should join.”

An unfamiliar pang of anxiety hits her, following Adore’s sentence. Trixie tries to maintain a straight face, as the cogs in her brain start to work overtime. She thinks of all the possible awkward laughs, long silences or cold shoulders that could come her way if she meets new people tonight.

Having grown up in a small town where everyone knows everyone including everyone’s third cousin removed, she’s always been in the fortunate position of not having to make new friends. Which is a god-send, as she’s been told that she’s everything from reserved to _down-right prickly_ when meeting new people. The tension still between her and several of her co-workers, even months into the job, could attest to that.

“They’ll love you!” Adore nudges her in the side when she doesn’t respond.

“I’ll think about it,” Trixie says as she tries to ease the frown lines she can feel appearing on her forehead. She’s not a great lier.

“We both know I don’t take no for an answer.”

“Which is why I didn’t say no, I said -“

“That you’ll think about it, which essentially means no -“

Their bickering is cut off as the instructor at the front of the room lets out a loud _SHHHHH,_ pointed in their direction. Again, the heads in front of them spin around to look at the two of them. _Sorry, sorry._ They both mutter this time.

She leaves work that day with her mind racing, running through her possible options for the night. She could lie, could make up an excuse to avoid going out. She could simply not respond to any of the barrage of texts she’s certain that Adore will send her later, Lord knows she’s done that before.

Or, and this is the most anxiety inducing proposition, she could suck it up and go.

The last option is the least appealing. She tries to picture what Adore’s friends will look like and creates towering, intimidating women in her head. Sharp, piercing gazes and crackling wit that she can’t keep up with. Accents, much fancier than her own country voice. Blue eyes, blonde hair. Monsters.

It’s a back and forth in her head. A tennis match played against herself, with one half of her brain encouraging her to go out, encouraging her to meet new people, the other half begging her to stay in. This continues during her entire journey home and enters her apartment with her once she steps through the door. It doesn’t stop as she opens a bottle of wine ( _just in case_ ), nor does it stop as she hops in the shower ( _just in case_ ). 

Just as she steps out of the shower, the buzzer from her intercom rings through her apartment. Several months living here, and the sound still makes her jump. There’s a small cut on her knee from shaving, letting a flow of blood run down her leg. _Fuck,_ she hisses, wrapping her dressing gown around her as quickly as she can manage.

The buzzer goes again, and she scrambles to put her slippers on before leaving the bathroom. A cloud of steam follows her out, and she thinks of the damp and the mould she’s inevitably going to encounter in this apartment.

No one comes to her door apart from delivery drivers, these days, but she’s not expecting a delivery. Apprehensively, she presses the button to speak into the intercom.

“Hello?”

“Trixie?” Comes down the other end. Her stomach sinks. “It’s Adore!”

She shuts her eyes, tight, almost willing this reality away.

“Come on up.” She holds in a sigh.

There’s no time to do anything else but wait for Adore to arrive at her door, which she does in record time. Trixie imagines her running up the stairs to her apartment, her long legs taking two steps at a time. She doesn’t do half measures.

The younger woman’s dark brown eyes flick up and down her body, still wrapped in a dressing gown, as Trixie opens the door. There’s a playful smile on her face as she enters the apartment, bringing a waft of perfume with her. It smells like a new one the department store is stocking. Trixie wonders if she paid for it.

“Had a feeling you might try and make up an excuse for tonight.” She says as she flops down onto the sofa. _Your shoes are still on,_ Trixie wants to say. Manicured hands stretch out into the air as she exclaims: “But look at you!”

“So you’re, what, here to drag me out whether I like it or not?” Trixie crosses her arms in front of her chest. She’s relieved she can’t see herself in the mirror right now. Adore shrugs.

“I’m the devil on your shoulder.” She grins, reaching down to the plastic bag she dropped on the floor. It rustles as she pulls out a bottle of vodka. “I’m also here to drink.”

*****

“You look good tonight, girl.” Adore shouts in her ear, trying to make her voice heard over the thumping music in the bar. _At what point does a bar become a club?_ Trixie wonders. Adore’s breath smells of vodka and coke (there’s already enough alcohol in that girl to power a small car).

This is not the first time she’s said that tonight.

_You look good too,_ is what she should say back. Or something along those lines, at least. A pitiful and dry _thanks_ is the only thing that comes out.

Adore’s not wrong. She’s made a proper effort tonight, even going to the trouble of squeezing her feet into high heels and forcing her body into a skirt that’s so tight it hurts when she sits down. The small cut on her leg is covered by a plaster, but hopefully that’s not visible under the dark lighting of the bar.

Adore stumbles slightly next to her.

“I need a drink.” Its Trixie’s turn to shout, now. Trying to convince the bouncers that _no, Adore is not too drunk to come in_ , was the first hurdle of the night. Playing catch up is the second. Adore takes her hand, her palm clammy against Trixie’s, as she starts to drag her towards a gap at the bar.

“Once we get these, I’ll take you to meet Bianca.”

Trixie’s stomach drops again. She’s listened to Adore eulogise about Bianca for hours already. _She’s totally evil, you’ll love her._ But a small part of her was hoping Adore would’ve forgotten.

“You think we’ll find her?” Trixie asks, looking around at the packed room.

“She’s old. She’s sat down somewhere.”

They squeeze away from the bar a few minutes later with drinks in both hands. _Saves time,_ Adore said as she wiggled her eyebrows at Trixie when they ordered as if she alone was privy to this technique. A few drops splash onto her skirt as they weave their way through the crowd and she curses to herself.

Adore leads them into quieter room, one with dim lights that contrast the colourful strobes in the previous room. It takes Trixie’s eyes a second to adjust, and she takes advantage of the room around her to down as much of one drink as possible. She discards the empty cup on a spare table and notices that at some point Adore had done the same.

“Bianca!” Adore all but screams. Trixie scans the room for bouncers. A woman at the other end of the bar turns around, flinging her arms out wide. Suddenly, Trixie is left alone as Adore rushes to the older woman, her drink sloshing in her hand. Trixie follows slowly, apprehensively. Her free hand comes up and she starts biting her fingernails without realising it.

There’s one other woman in addition to Bianca, sat on a barstool next to her. Without her contact lenses in, Trixie can just about make out their blonde hair but nothing else. Two (quick maths) new people to meet. That’s do-able.

When she reaches Adore the other girl grips her hand tightly, as if she’s a child showing her new toy off to her parents.

“This is Bianca.” She says. “And this is Katya.”

At that, the blonde on the barstool turns around. Their eyes meet, and Trixie feels as if the entire English language has escaped her in this moment. Apart from one word:

_Fuck._

Several weeks have passed since Katya was in her apartment. One night of which might have involved a slightly drunken text, that was promptly deleted the next morning once she realised what she’d done. She hasn’t been able to get over the embarrassment of being rejected, nor has she been able to forget about the woman sat in front of her right now.

“Adore Delano,” Bianca drags out, as if she’s trying to make a point about something. “Who is this pretty little thing?”

That’s her cue to speak.

“Trixie.” She says. Her free hand hangs limply at her sides, not sure if she should go in for a hug, a handshake or a courtesy. There’s something almost regal about Bianca.

She’s keenly aware of Katya watching her from the sidelines, and focuses all her energy on stopping the blush that is threatening to creep up her cheeks.

“Trixie.” Bianca repeats, with a nod of her head. Trixie could swear she looks unimpressed.

“Trixie Mattel. Or, you know, Trix also works.” She’s started babbling now, her mouth running away from her. “Or Mattel, if you’re formal -“

“It’s nice to meet you, Trixie.” Katya interjects, putting a hand on Bianca’s shoulder. “Don’t mind this one, she thinks she’s the judge, jury and executioner.”

Katya might say more than that, but Trixie stopped paying attention at _it’s nice to meet you._

So that’s how it’s going to go, tonight.

“Who says I’m not?” Bianca swivels round, her eyes wide. Katya’s eyes roll in response.

“You’re everything you think you are, and more.” Adore purrs.

“After a free drink?” Bianca raises an eyebrow.

“Maybe.” Adore dips her shoulder, looking at Bianca through her eyelashes.

“What about you, Barbie? Fancy a drink?” Bianca directs at Trixie.

She swallows. It’s only at this point that she realises her gaze has been stuck on Katya, and she forces herself to look at Bianca instead. There’s still the best part of a drink in her hand (whatever she hasn’t split down her skirt yet), but _god_ does she feel the need to get drunk right now.

“I won’t say no.”

“Thank god. Been stuck with this one on the soda and lime all night.” Bianca jerks her thumb at Katya, who purses her lips in a wry smile.

“ _This one_ is also giving you a lift home.” She replies, jabbing her gently in the side. She’s wearing a low cut top, and the black lacy material shows more skin than she might be aware of. It’s all Trixie can do to stop her eyes wandering down from her collarbones to her navel.

Bianca gets them both a vodka soda before they move to sit at a free booth. _Practically zero calories!_ She exclaims after ordering. Trixie’s never seen anyone get served so quickly at a bar.

The drink is sour, with a bitter after taste that makes her wince involuntarily. Seeing this, Bianca lets out a loud laugh. Her and Katya are sat shoulder to shoulder on the other side of the table. There’s plenty of room for them to sit further apart, and that’s when it clicks.

With piercing eyes and a sharper sense of humour than anything Trixie has come across before, Bianca tries a Spanish inquisition on her. It’s the usual questions, the template conversation that every college student needs to know when moving into their halls.

“Where are you from?”

_Wisconsin._

“What do you do?”

_I work with Adore._

“How old are you?”

_25._

“Where are you staying?”

_East._

She rattles off her answers with ease, but the next question brings her to a grinding halt.

“Why did you come to Boston?”

It feels as if everyone in the bar turns to stare at her as that question is asked. In reality, no one is looking. No one cares. But she feels her expression freeze, hears herself start to stutter over an answer that she hasn’t prepared. Thankfully, Katya steps in again.

“I think that’s enough of an interrogation for now.” She flashes an apologetic look at Trixie, before swiftly changing the subject to ask about Adore’s cat. Trixie didn’t know she had a cat.

The conversation carries on around her, without her. Not even alcohol can seem to loosen her lips tonight and she’s painfully aware of how quiet she’s being, only offering a laugh when the joke hits her a few seconds too late. Adore tries to include her, but it’s little hope when there are inside jokes she doesn’t get, stories about people she doesn’t know, and she can’t think of anything interesting to say about herself.

In what feels like a blink of an eye, her drink, her crutch, is gone. There’s a squidgy, slightly discoloured lime at the bottom of her glass and she pokes it with her straw. The other women around the table start to fade into the background as she gets lost in her own thoughts. That is until Bianca says something that snaps her back into reality.

“We’ve been talking about how we need to find Katya a girlfriend.” She says, with a sip of her cocktail. _No, you’ve been talking -_ Katya faintly protests, but her voice falls on (selectively) deaf ears. “You’re chronically single!” Bianca insists.

“ _Single?_ ” Trixie blurts out before she can stop herself.

“ _Chronic_ implies that there’s something wrong with it.” Katya grumbles, fiddling with the straw in her drink. Her eyes meet Trixie’s across the table, and realisation seems to dawn across her face.

Bianca’s intense gaze turns towards Trixie, and she would like nothing more than a hole in the ground to open up and swallow her. One of the sinkholes in Florida that, as a child, she imagined would play a much bigger part in her adult life, would be perfect right now.

“Why, are you interested?”

“No, no.” Trixie splutters.

“I’m far too old for Trixie.” Katya butts in. There’s a small smile on her face that Trixie interprets as _sorry._

“You’re only 32! Your whole life is ahead of you - and thank God for that.” Bianca slaps the table, making the drinks shake and Adore curl up in laughter beside her.

“32 is old.” Adore laughs, dragging out the d at the end.

In the midst of the argument that ensues between the two of them, Katya gets up from the table. With a cigarette hanging from her lips, she mumbles something that is barely audible above the music around them.

Trixie watches her go, feeling sick.

******

“I’m going to the toilets.” She says to Adore, not particularly worried about whether or not she hears her. She doubts they’ll miss her, either, as Adore chats animatedly with Bianca. Over half an hour has passed since Katya left (she hasn’t been counting) but no one seems worried that she’s gone.

Trixie’s stomach still churns when she thinks about Katya lying to her. _Did she seem too desperate? Or is she really that unattractive? Could it have been the sharp tone of her voice, or the way her accent curls when she says words like ‘programme’ and ‘fragrance’?_ The possibilities are endless.

She traces Katya’s steps out of the room and follows the sign for the toilets. The way men’s eyes openly glance up and down her body is not lost on her. Sometimes, she thinks, life would be a little easier if she were into them instead.

There’s a long queue for the toilets, and she leans back against the wall. The room has started spinning slightly, so she shuts her eyes. It feels as if only a second has passed before someone nudges her and her eyes snap open, ready to tell whatever creep it is to _piss off_ (or, humour them until she can think of an excuse to leave).

But it’s Katya, with a sheepish smile. A strand of blonde hair hangs in front of her face, a face adorned with red lipstick and false lashes. She’s beautiful, and Trixie wants to tell her to piss off.

“Fancy seeing you here.” She jokes. Her hands are picking at the nail polish on her finger, nail polish that is already chipping, as she gently and ever-so-slightly rocks her body from side to side. She can’t seem to stand still. Trixie’s nose tingles from the smell of cigarette smoke coming off her. “Listen, I’m sorry about that.”

Her face is serious, and Trixie believes that she really is sorry.

But she isn’t in the mood for pity right now.

“About what?” She asks, raising an eyebrow. The alcohol in her bloodstream is making her bolder,encouraging her to be confrontational where normally she would want this entire conversation to disappear. Katya lets out a sigh that seems to say _really, you’re gonna make me say it?_

“The whole single, not single thing.”

“If you weren’t interested in me, you could’ve just said.”

“I’m sorry. It’s not you.” Katya shrugs, looking down at her feet.

“ _It’s not you, it’s me.”_ She repeats, churlishly. Again, thank you alcohol. This brings out a snort from Katya, but Trixie is far from amused.

“It really is me, though.” She says, earnestly, as she finally looks Trixie in the eyes. “It was the only way I could think of not hurting your feelings, I - “

Trixie doesn’t get to find out what Katya was going to say next, as they’re knocked into by a group of men. A drink ends up down her skirt, again, and she tries to flick as much of the liquid off as she can, cursing the entire male population as she does so. She looks up, hands sticky from alcohol, to see Katya even angrier than she is.

“ _For fuck’s sake.”_ She mutters, a deep frown on her forehead. Her hands wipe furiously at her face as she continues to talk to herself. _“Fucking idiot.”_

“Hey,” Trixie tries to interrupt her rambling, alarmed at the emotions on display in front of her. She’s seen people angry before. She’s seen people upset before. But she hasn’t often seen someone’s hands shake the way Katya’s are right now. She reaches out to touch Katya’s arm. “It’s just a drink.”

Katya yanks her arm back away from Trixie, her lips upturned into the exact opposite of a smile. In this moment, Trixie would give anything to see a smile return to her face.

“Yeah, I know.” Katya says, in a clipped tone. “Just a drink.”

Even though the line moves slowly, they don’t speak again before finally making it to the toilets. There’s a new tension between them, and her chest is tight as if she’s just smoked a cigarette. Trixie lets Katya go first.

“Meet you outside?” She asks, watching the back of the other woman as she walks away. She doesn’t get a response.

There’s no one waiting for her when she’s done. She scans the corridor, even stretching onto her toes to see over heads, but can’t see Katya. She knows she shouldn’t care as much as she does.

She’s not there either when she gets back to the booth. Adore and Bianca are still wrapped in conversation, and she doesn’t feel like being a third wheel right now.

“Is Katya smoking?” She interrupts them. Bianca looks up at her with wide eyes, as if she’s just remembered that Trixie exists.

“She’s gone home.”

“Right.” She says, sliding back into the booth. She can feel Adore’s gaze on her.

******

She remembers bringing Adore home this time. Remembers the way she looked at her as they stood in front of the taxi. Weighing up the pros and cons of waking up by herself, and deciding that she didn’t want to go through another night alone. And if, last night, she let herself imagine that it was someone else in bed with her, someone else she was going down on, someone else saying her name, she will push those memories to the back of her mind.

A dead arm greets her when she wakes up. The culprit is Adore’s head resting on her, her mouth wide open as she snores gently. Trixie tries to slide her arm slowly out from under the younger girl without waking her up, but gives up when it becomes too difficult.

She’s not sure how much time passes before Adore starts moving next to her, but eventually her eyes open. A few false lashes have remained on her eyes, like wounded soldiers. Her mouth opens into a wide yawn, and she goes into a full body stretch - not caring that Trixie’s in the way.

It makes Trixie laugh, slightly, as she bats Adore’s outstretched arm away from her face.

“Morning.” Adore flashes a smile at her.

“Hey.”

“What’s the time?”

Trixie pats the area of the bed where she normally keeps her phone, but all she finds is empty space. The covers are bunched up on Adore’s side of the bed, and she takes the opportunity now she’s awake to yank them back over her side.

“I don’t know.” Trixie yawns, bringing the blankets up to cover her chest. They’re both naked. “Do you have somewhere to be?”

“Said I’d meet my mom for lunch.” Adore smiles. She talks about her mom a lot and it always seems out of place to Trixie, out of character when she compares it to the other Adore she thinks she knows.

“Isn’t living with her enough?” She snorts. She couldn’t imagine her mom ever asking her to go for lunch.

“I take it you don’t get on well with your mom.”

The closest she got to having lunch with her mom was the leftovers from her and her step-dad’s date nights, snuck into her mouth late at night in front of the cold, harsh light of the fridge. It tasted like revenge.

“You could say that.”

“Well, mine’s great.” Adore’s fiddling with the hairband on her wrist, now. Snapping against her skin. “You should meet her one day.”

A phone, from somewhere in the room, lets off a _ding_ to tell her she has a new message. She clutches the duvet to her chest as she stretches her neck, scanning the room for her phone.

“Hey, here.” Adore reaches down to the floor, and comes back up with the phone in her hand. She’s not afraid to let the covers fall down from her body, exposing her back and much more. Not for the first time does Trixie wish she could have some of that confidence.

There are several messages on her home screen, all from Katya.

_Hi_

The first one reads.

_I think I might have come off as a bit of a dick last night._

_Sorry about that._

_Hope you guys enjoyed the rest of the night._

“Why did Katya leave so early last night?” Trixie asks, locking her screen. She attempts to act nonchalant as Adore turns to look at her. Her gaze is just short of intense.

“Did she?” She asks. The both of them are now feigning nonchalance, it seems.

_You know she did,_ Trixie wants to say.

“Yeah.” Is all she says instead.

“I dunno.” Adore shrugs, finally looking away from her. There’s a pause, during which Adore lets out a short sigh. “She doesn’t really like going out. Don’t know why she comes out with us, to be honest.”

“Oh.” Trixie says, even though it tells her nothing.

“Can I jump in the shower before I go?” The woman beside her asks as she sits up in the bed. Her exposed back is facing Trixie, the covers left discarded. A few acne marks decorate her back, reminding Trixie that she’s only 21.

She shows Adore how to work the shower ( _left for hot, right for cold. The water pressure gives up after ten minutes, so make it quick_ ) and returns to her bed once she’s done. Not even bothering to put a pillow under her head or take off her slippers, she flops down onto the bed and shuts her eyes. The noise from the shower drifts into the room. Adore is humming a song that Trixie can’t make out, a song she doubts she would know even if she could hear the lyrics. She has a nice voice.

When sleep doesn’t come she opens her eyes again. There’s a cobweb in the corner of her room, where the wall meets the ceiling, and she contemplates taking a feather duster to it. She’d feel too guilty, though.

Katya is still occupying her thoughts, and the text messages on her phone that beg for a response are doing nothing to help. She has half a mind to leave her reply until hours later. To make Katya think she’s _cool and busy,_ make her think that she has dozens of other people she could be talking to right now.

But something about the way the other woman looked last night stops her from doing that, as she reaches for her phone again and brings up their messages.

_Don’t worry about it._

She types. The full stop seems harsh when she looks at the message after its sent.

_I’ve met worse people on a night out :)_

Her thumbs hover over the keyboard, contemplating whether she should send another message. Before she can, though, the bathroom door opens. Adore steps out in a familiar cloud of steam, now fully clothed. She moves around the room, picking up bits and pieces she’d discarded the night before, as Trixie watches lazily from her bed. Once done, she stands near the doorway to her bedroom, arms folded over her jacket.

“I like you, Trix.” She licks her lips, nervously. All Trixie can seem to do is breathe in, then breathe out. “If you don’t like me the same way that’s fine, just thought you should know.”

Trixie opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Katya’s a bit of a mess.” Adore says. Those six words shatter the silence. “If you’re thinking about going there. Just thought you should know that, too.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't sure when to post this as it isn't the happiest chapter. if you're looking for some christmas comfort probably read something else - if you're feeling a little low or struggling with the holidays read at your own discretion 
> 
> my 'research' for this chapter included is it colder in Boston or milwaukee? do they have chimneys in Boston? Do they have Christmas crackers in america? Paper hats? Can you get Prosecco in america?

She’s not sure how or when it started; her phone won’t let her scroll back far enough in their conversation to find out. But, at some point in time, she and Katya start texting constantly.

It’s never a conversation, per-say. It’s never a _how are you, what are you doing._ It’s closer to a diary, or talking out loud to yourself when there’s no one there to hear it. But now there is someone on the other side.Someone more responsive than the walls of her apartment - someone more attractive, too.

After every shift at work there will be messages waiting for her on her phone, Katya passing on an obscure fact about Julia Roberts or a story about the woman she met whilst taking out the bins. Each morning will start with a series of texts from Katya about her dreams the night before. Trixie always tells her to use a dream journal, to which Katya replies that _she_ is her dream journal.

Trixie starts sending them back. She’ll send quotes from adverts she likes at 10pm, asks Katya questions like _when will the universe will stop expanding_ without expecting or needing an answer. All the random thoughts that pop into her head during the time she spends alone in her apartment now have a home, a place to go.

The message notification noise on her phone has become her favourite sound, and her phone hasn’t been on silent for weeks.

“You seem happy.” Someone at work remarks, as they’re sat in the staffroom together. Trixie looks up, only just realising that there’s someone else in the room. She’s only just realised she was smiling at her phone, too.

And then, one day, it does become more of a conversation. She finds herself debating the merits of Lady Gaga with Katya, who doesn’t get it at all. Katya starts looking up the answers to her questions on wikipedia, sending links to Vice articles that Trixie pretends to read. Trixie starts telling Katya her own stories, like that date with a customer that Adore backed herself into because she’s too polite to say _no._ Katya jokes that maybe they should’ve gone to save her, and Trixie imagines the two of them on a date for an embarrassingly long time.

It carries on for weeks. She doesn’t tell Adore. Which feels simultaneously like No Big Deal At All and A Very Big Deal. She flits between thinking that it is none of her business, and that she is making a huge omission every time they speak. Her improved mood hasn’t gone unnoticed by her friend, however. She’s now running out of fingers to count the amount of times Adore has asked her _what’s so funny?_ as she laughs at the messages on her phone.

One day the tone of their messages change. Katya seems grumpy, and Trixie pictures her on the other side of the phone stoney faced. Their conversation is so off kilter that Trixie bites the bullet and sends:

_Are you ok?_

Her message goes ignored. Katya is back the next day like nothing happened to tell her about the tarot card reading she got. It’s then that Trixie remembers that she still doesn’t really know anything about this woman. Nothing substantial, at least.

They keep up this charade as autumn turns into winter, as leaves crunch under Trixie’s feet on her way to work and every morning starts with condensation on her windows. They never call, never meet, never have a conversation that goes deeper or more intimate than the ingrown hair that Katya likes talking about.

Christmas songs start entering the playlist at work. Adore drags her to Christmas markets, where they clutch hot mulled wine in their hands and pick up gifts that they can’t afford on a retail assistant’s wage before putting them back down again. Going home to an empty apartment doesn’t seem too bad, anymore. The best she can say for her mental health during this time, is that she doesn’t think of it at all.

“What are you doing for Christmas?” Adore asks one day. Flakes of snow land gently on her head, a sharp contrast against her dark hair. She’s persuaded her to go ice-skating, and they stand in the queue to get their skates. “Are you going home?”

_No, she’s not going home._

“I’m staying here.” Trixie replies. It’s cold enough to see her breath, and she shivers.

“Oh.” Adore sounds surprised. “Do you have family coming here?”

“Nope.”

There’s a pause between them, as they continue to shuffle along in the queue.

“Are you gonna be alone?” There’s not even an attempt from the other woman to pass it off as a casual comment. Her words are soaked in sympathy and Trixie swallows, trying to bury the resentment that is building up in response to it.

“Looks like it.” Her tone is clipped, and harsher than Adore deserves. But she can’t help it.

“You’re more than welcome to spend it with me and my mom, if you want?” The woman beside her asks, tentatively. “As friends, of course.” She adds, hurriedly. Between the two of them they’ve swept Adore’s confession under the rug, buried it 6 foot deep in the snow covered ground. She seems eager not to dwell on it again.

Christmas Day with her family was always different to the other 364 days of the year. It seemed to offer a respite from the chaos around her (maybe because it was socially acceptable to drink before 12pm). As she got older she started helping her mom decorate their house (it was a small house, and didn’t take very long) in what was possibly the closest they got to mother and daughter bonding time. They would sit down in a house adorned with tinsel and eat together. She doesn’t remember a single argument around the table on Christmas Day.

She tries to imagine spending Christmas on her own, and then tries to imagine spending it with Adore. She draws up a blank on both.

Her phone dings and she checks it to find a message from Katya.

_Did you know that cows have best friends?_

_Feel bad for eating them now._

Trixie lets out a smile, and quickly types a response.

_I don’t eat them._

_I’m an enlightened vegetarian._

She remembers that she hasn’t responded to Adore, yet, whose still looking at her. They’re a few customers away from getting their skates, now.

“Ok, sure.” She says, before reminding herself to be more polite. “Thanks.”

*****

The big day arrives and she wakes up to frosted windows and the thrum of her central heating as it works overtime to combat the chill. Winter in Boston feels colder than Wisconsin, but she’s not sure if that’s scientifically accurate. She’s asked Katya about it at some point, who suggested that maybe Trixie has just lost weight. _I doubt it,_ was her response.

She lies in bed for a few minutes, feeling like a weight is sat on her chest. Usually she’d be woken up by one of her younger sisters, at a time in the morning that thankfully started to get later and later as they all grew older. She’d stay in her pyjamas all day and not put on an ounce of makeup.

Her apartment feels overwhelmingly quiet this morning in comparison.

It doesn’t take her long to get ready, putting on her most acceptable sweat pants and a lick of mascara. She looks at her phone as little as possible, only to check the time and to let Adore know she’ll be on her way soon.

She yanks on her big puffer coat. It’s one she’s had since she was 17, and she can still remember the day her mom bought it for her. There’s a couple of tissues left in the pocket from the last time she wore it, pink stains from blotting her lipstick decorating them, and she chucks them in the bin. A bag of presents for Adore and her mom, that she’s still yet to meet, waits at her door for her.

She’s just about to call for an Uber (an expense she can’t really afford at the moment, but it’s Christmas) when a text from Adore pops up on her phone.

_Have you left yet?_

_If not, don’t._

Trixie’s heart sinks, and her grip on the bag of presents loosens.

_My mom wants to pick you up._

Trixie swallows. Her eyes feel sore, and she blinks in an attempt to get rid of the tears that are beginning to form.

_That’s nice of her, thanks._

She replies.

The air is freezing when she finally leaves her apartment block, with a bag in both hands and chunky boots on her feet. A smattering of snow lies on the ground, soon to turn into grey slush as it always seems to do in Boston. The snow back home in Wisconsin would stay white and fluffy for weeks, lying undisturbed amongst the scattered rural homes.

There’s a big car waiting for her on the side of the road, humming as its left in ignition. It’s silver and shiny, and it looks as if it hasn’t done a day of work in its life.

_Oh_ , Trixie thinks. _She’s rich._

The passenger door opens, and Adore sticks her head out.

“Get in!” She waves her hands to Trixie, her body still bound by the seatbelt. Trixie does as she’s told, and steps into a car that smells like Adore.

“Thanks so much for having me,” She says, after clambering into a seat and dumping her bags down next to her. She’s not used to having this much space in a car, to stretching her long legs out. The woman in the driver’s seat looks like she could be Adore’s sister, and when she flashes Trixie a smile it is hard to tell the two apart.

“Our pleasure, Trix.” She says, with a voice as warm as honey.

_Trix._ No one in Boston calls her Trix, apart from Adore.

“This is a lovely car.” Trixie’s not sure why she says that.

“Thank you.” Adore’s mom purrs, and then laughs loudly. “Divorce money”

In the rear view mirror Trixie catches Adore’s eyes roll, but there’s a smile on her face.

“Merry Christmas, Trix.” She throws over her shoulder.

If she thought the car was impressive, she’s soon blown away by the house as they roll into the driveway. It’s a driveway with two exits, one that curves around a semi-circle of grass (now covered in perfect snow) with a water feature in the middle. Ivy crawls up the red brick exterior, weaving around big sash windows.

Inside, the house is festooned with tasteful Christmas decorations, decorations that would put Trixie’s childhood home to shame. The gold and silver tones are a far cry from the mismatched and multicoloured decorations she and her mom would hang up. She misses them, the broken baubles, the string lights with blown bulbs, the tree decorations made of chocolate that had been coming out for Christmas every year since Trixie can remember (she doubts that chocolate is safe to eat anymore).

“The house is a little too big for just the two of us.” Adore’s mom remarks, as they all strip off their coats and shoes. Silently, Trixie agrees. The staircase alone feels bigger than her current apartment, and she feels a tinge of embarrassment when she thinks back to Adore coming over to her place. “Such a good thing we have you here today, Trix.”

Trixie holds back a laugh. She makes it sound as if she’s doing them a favour.

“Happy to help.” She says, with a smile.

As it turns out, she might actually be doing them a favour. The dining table is soon overwhelmed with enough party food to feed a village, and she doubts that they would ever be able to get through all of this alone. Adore’s waist is about the same circumference as her thumb, and her mom is not far off that either.

“Divorce money,” Adore’s mom says again with a brilliant white smile, bringing through another plate of canapés. “Men are pigs. Today we’re all going to be pigs as well.”

Adore meets her eyes across the table with a small, sheepish smile. Trixie raises her glass, filled to the brim with Prosecco, in a toast.

“To being pigs,” She laughs. Her plate is soon piled high with food and every time she clears a space on it is met with Adore’s mom spooning more onto it. _Call me Carla,_ she says at one point, after Trixie stutters over _Mrs - Miss - Ms Delano._

They talk about their work, about their colleagues at the counter and the shop floor. The steady flow of alcohol loosens Trixie’s tongue to the point where she’s bringing up Adore’s ill-fated date to her mom, who looks at her with wide, scandalous eyes. Adore has her fork at the ready, threatening to catapult food into Trixie’s face.

“Here I was, thinking that I had raised my child better than to go on dates with men!” She says, with a loud laugh.

“It’s a sexual preference, mom. Nothing to do with how you raised me.” Adore takes a sip of her drink, arching her eyebrows. “I was simply born better.” She says, a small smirk on her face.

“You know how I found out that my daughter was gay?” Carla asks Trixie, who almost chokes on her mouth full of food. She shakes her head in response. “I got called into school by her teacher, because Adore had been causing _fights.”_

At that, Trixie stops chewing. Her knife and fork stay frozen, hovering over her plate, as she is reminded of her own school days.

“She had three girlfriends! Three!” Carla says, gleefully. On her left, Adore buries her head in her hands as her shoulders shake with laughter. The tension in Trixie’s shoulders quickly disappears. “They all found out about each other and were _not_ happy.”

“I was a bit of a player.” Adore says, voice muffled by the fingers in front of her mouth.

*****

The day comes to a close with a ride back to her apartment. Having fallen asleep on the sofa an hour before, Adore doesn’t join them. Her mom offers to wake her for Trixie, but she looks too peaceful to do that.

“It’s fine.” Trixie whispers, as Adore gently snores away.

The car ride is quiet for the most part, with Adore’s mom focusing on the slippery roads. Snow can be seen falling in the orange light from the street lamps, and Trixie is already dreading the moment she has to step out of the warm car and into the cold air.

Her mind starts to wander back to Wisconsin, wondering what her family are up to. No one has called her, no one has messaged. Her phone has remained depressingly silent, which might have been noticed by Adore’s mom if the sympathetic looks she’d tried to hide throughout the day were anything to go by.

“My daughter talks about you a lot.” She says, bringing Trixie back into the present.

“Oh?” Trixie replies, fiddling with the zipper on her coat and trying to maintain a straight face.

“I’m glad she has a friend like you.” Long, elegant fingers with French tip nails tap on the steering wheel as they wait at a red light. She looks as if she’s about to say something else, and then stops herself. “You know, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask us.”

Trixie takes a deep breath in, and mumbles _thanks._ She doesn’t know what else to say.

“Boston’s a big city to live in on your own.”

There’s a glass of wine at her feet again as she stretches out on her sofa, as much as the small space will allow for. The feelings of warmth and happiness that she brought home with her from Adore’s are starting to wear off now, and the drink on the floor feels more like a commiseration than a celebration of Christmas.

Fluffy, thick socks adorn her feet. Pink ones that her mom bought her, just the wrong side of affordable (for her family, at least). Her mom had snuck them into her room one night whispering _don’t tell your father._

_Step-dad,_ Trixie had replied.

She ends up on facebook, having exhausted twitter and instagram. Seeing other people happy is just making her mood worse but, like looking away from a car crash, she can’t seem to stop. She knows it’s a terrible idea when she moves to the search bar, but she types in her sister’s name regardless. They’re not friends on facebook, never have been thanks to the 8 years that separate the two of them and her sister’s incessant demand for privacy from her family (sharing a room with her didn’t help), but she can still see most of her profile.

There’s new photos that have been uploaded today, and Trixie takes a big sip of wine before clicking into them. She’s greeted by her family’s smiling faces, sat around the dinner table that only comes out for special occasions (they never eat at the same time during the rest of the year). Not one of the people in the pictures have contacted her today. No one contacted her yesterday, or last week, or last month. And she doubts no one will tomorrow.

Considering the circumstances she left under, considering her childhood and her teenage years, she shouldn’t miss them. Most days she doesn’t, but today isn’t most days. Today feels like an open wound in her chest, and no amount of fancy canapés from Adore’s mom can fill it.

A message from Katya pops up on the screen, interrupting her wallowing in self-pity.

_Merry Christmas_

She’s sent, accompanied by a litany of emojis. Trixie swipes the notification away and locks her phone before shutting her eyes tight as she sinks down into the sofa. She tries not to think about what happened before she came to Boston, she really tries. But the memories are like a splinter in her finger; at some point they demand to be dealt with.

In her lower moments, her mind likes to repeat the final day she spent with her family. The memory has been played so much now that it is like a broken record now. She’s not sure what’s missing from it, what she’s made up or exaggerated. The words her step-dad said to her that day, as she slammed her car boot shut on everything she’d managed to cram into it, change every time she thinks about them. They always stay horrible, however. Her mom’s tears remain the same. They stick out the most, given that she doesn’t remember ever making her mom cry before (she’d seen her cry about plenty of other things).

True to form, she managed to make it about her.

Her phone buzzes from underneath her, and she rubs her eyes before reaching to check it. It’s Katya, again, this time with a quote from the movie _airplane._

_I am serious, and don’t call me Shirley._

She writes. Maybe it’s the wine in her, or maybe it’s something else, that compels Trixie to reply with:

_Im not feeling great._

Immediately after she presses _send_ she regrets it, and her thumbs tap quickly against the key board to follow it up with:

_Ignore that. I’m fine._

Barely a second has passed before her phone starts to ring. It’s Katya calling her, and she freezes. This isn’t what they do.

She presses decline _._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter includes depression, so read at your own discretion.

_January blues,_ people say _._ She’s had the January blues before. Low on money, hangovers that remind you how low on money you are, bloating from the carb-loading in December. But this feels like a different beast entirely. If this is the January blues, she doesn’t want to know it. _Unfollowed, blocked, reported._

Waking up was never easy, but now it becomes an effort. Getting out of bed in the morning becomes a task. Stepping out of her front door to go to work feels like the prospect of climbing Mount Everest.

She’s never been a good actor and lets her bad mood show at work, to the point where even Aja or the other girls will reproach her for it. _There goes that commission,_ they’ll sometimes whisper under their breath. After a while, they stop making any attempt to hide their discontent.

Her own makeup has gone down to the bare minimum, earning her several snide comments from management - these are not said under their breath. Sometimes she skips showers, or leaves an extra day (or two) before washing her hair. Sometimes then becomes often.

It feels like falling down a slippery slope, at the bottom is a pit made of her own self destruction. Some days she tries to stop sliding, forces herself to smile more at customers or crack jokes with colleagues. Tries to iron her shirts before work in the morning or put on a full face of makeup. Inevitably, it ends in tears - whether it be in her bathroom holding a mascara wand or the back of the stock room (or anywhere in between).

Trixie doesn’t have enough fingers to count on the amount of times Adore will say _are you ok?_ She soon gets creative with this question. ‘ _Are you ok’_ gets hidden in ‘ _you look tired’_ s, ‘ _you know you can talk to me_ ’s and, the hardest one to dodge, ‘ _why don’t we do something after work?’._

Eventually she stops going into work altogether. _I’m sick_ turns into _I’m not coming in._ She coughs better than Karen from Mean Girls down the phone, but it’s to no avail as _I’m not coming in_ is, at some point, answered with _you’re being let go._

There’s no savings for her to fall back on. No family money, no rich benefactor to come out of the woodwork and surprise her a la _Great Expectations_. She knows she should be worried about how she’s going to buy groceries. How she’s going to pay rent, the water bill, electricity, her phone bill…

But _s_ he hasn’t got the energy to care.

After she gets home from loosing her job, she doesn’t go out for another week. The door is opened once for a disappointing Chinese takeaway, most of which remains in their containers and left on her kitchen counters to rot. Her bed becomes her sole point of focus, as the world outside her apartment fades into background noise.

Messages from Katya go unanswered. Messages from Adore aren’t even looked at. Her phone is simply for checking the time, now. Some days she doesn’t even do that. The internet throws around terms like _seasonal affective disorder, clinical depression, bipolar disorder,_ but all she knows is that she feels entirely empty, like there is a gaping chasm where her feelings and emotions and thoughts should be.

She stops looking at the internet for answers and turns to it solely for comfort. There’s a million seasons of Drag Race to keep her company, a litany of celebrity chefs to live vicariously through. Barefoot Contessa’s dinner parties become her social life. She tells herself that if she can make it through the day, make it through the week, then things will start feeling better. But the days keep turning into weeks, and the weeks keep rolling into new weeks.

There was a story in the news a few years ago. A woman who’s dead body lay undiscovered in her apartment in London for three years. The TV was still on when they found her, letters piled high underneath her letterbox. It was debt collectors that found her in the end. Sometimes, at night, she thinks about how long it would take people to discover her body if she died. She imagines her lying in her bed, lit by the glow of her laptop screen, an empty bottle of wine on the floor.

(she doesn’t want to die)

January turns into February, and suddenly there’s no colloquial term for feeling this way in February. The several pounds that she put on since moving to Boston haven’t moved into February with her. _You’ve lost weight,_ she can hear her mom saying when she looks in the mirror.

At some point a reminder pops up on her calendar - _rent is due!_ It says, with a sad face. Her phone ends up on the other side of the room. Unemployment is not conducive to paying rent, unsurprisingly. She can’t summon the effort required to address the problem, however, and sticks her head in the sand instead.

The sun keeps rising up in the morning and falling down at night. Her blinds stay down, her bed unmade, and her kitchen unused save for the kettle to make instant noodles.

Soon her rent is _late_ late and there’s missed calls on her phone from her Landlord. Somewhere, in the recesses of her brain, she remembers Katya talking about _the rentier class_ with disdain. But she likes Shannon. And the fear of being served an eviction notice, her door being knocked in by debt collectors or bailiffs throwing her mattress out of the window (with her motionless body in tow) is becoming hard to push to the back of her mind.

So, eventually and very reluctantly, she answers.

“Listen, I’m really sorry -“ She croaks out, before she’s even said hello. Apart from the cashier at the grocery store who sometimes meets her eyes with a sympathetic smile, she hasn’t really spoken to anyone for a couple of weeks. On a good day, Trixie will convince herself that he’s flirting with her. On a bad day, she’ll look at the acne that’s starting to build up on her face thanks to her slipping standards of hygiene and wonder how _anyone could even like her._

“I’ve been trying to reach you for ages!” Her landlord interrupts her. Trixie winces at her words, thinking of the money in her bank account right now. “My sister says she should probably service the boiler again - I was worried you’d frozen to death after you didn’t get back to me!” She laughs.

It takes Trixie’s brain a second to catch up, to realise that she isn’t about to be dragged over hot coals for missing her rent.

“Sorry - what?”

“The boiler. Katya - my sister - thinks it needs another check. Is there a good time for her to come around?” Her Landlord’s voice is warm, with inflections and an accent that reminds her of Katya. Trixie looks around the room; her apartment is close to a cry for help at the moment.

“I don’t know if it needs one, to be honest?”

“You and me both.” Shannon laughs, again. “But Katya keeps chewing my ear off about carbon monoxide poisoning, so you’d be doing me a favour by letting her come look at it.”

Trixie takes her phone away from her head for a second, enabling her to let out a loud sigh. It is a sigh that acknowledges she’s going to have to spend several hours cleaning her apartment. But it’s better than paying rent.

“How about the day after tomorrow?”

“Perfect! I’ll text you with a time.” Shannon says, happily, before ending the call.

Just like that, her bubble is burst.

******

It’s the day after tomorrow. At least, she thinks it is - she’s not great at keeping track of the days at the moment. She didn’t wake up in time to get ready before there was a knock on her door. In her groggy, sleepy state she contemplated not answering it for a few seconds.

So she finds herself walking over to the door in her dressing gown and slippers, hair tied on top of her head in a messy bun. She tries to eradicate all remnants of sleep from herself before opening the door, rubbing her eyes to clear the crusty gunk and yawning two or three times. Before undoing the lock she pauses, unsure if she’s ready to let someone into her apartment, into her life, at the moment.

But if Katya’s on the other side of the door then she’s probably already heard her moving about, so she opens it.

“Hey.” Katya says, on an exhale. She sounds like she’s just run up the stairs to her apartment, and she looks like it too. Without her contacts in, Trixie has to squint at her. Sweat beads at her forehead and lies gently on her upper lip. A high pony tail sits on top of her head again, with a red velvet scrunchy keeping it in place. Katya scrunches up her nose. “Long time no see, stranger.”

“Are you alright?” Trixie asks. She can feel her brows furrowed into a frown, and tries to ease the concern that must be evident on her face. Katya looks back at her with wide eyes.

“What?”

“You look - never mind.” They both look at each other, an awkward silence between them. Katya opens her mouth as if to speak, but then closes it again. “Come in.”

Trixie steps aside to let her in and the other woman wipes her chunky boots on the doormat, leaving clumps of dirty snow in the material. Trixie wasn’t aware there was still snow outside.

“Sorry - forgot you were a vegetarian!” Katya lets out a small chuckle. Her laugh isn’t how Trixie remembered it.

“Huh?”

“My boots - leather …” She says. Her eyes widen again. Now they’re closer together, Trixie can see baby hairs, wet from the snow, clinging to her forehead. They both look down at her boots, and look up again at exactly the same time. It’s almost comical.

“I was looking at the snow.” Trixie shuts the front door, careful not to let her slippers touch any of the snow that Katya brought in with her. It’s melting quickly from the warmth of her apartment. “Do you mind taking your shoes off?”

“No problemo.” The woman opposite her answers, cheerfully, before bending down to unbuckle her boots. It’s a task that requires her to hold onto the shoe rack beside her for balance, as her hair tumbles down to hide her face.

“So, the boiler?” Trixie prompts, before they can engage in any more small talk. The quicker she can get this over and done with, then the quicker she can turn off the lights and disappear into the folds of her bed covers again. Katya’s boots have an unnecessary amount of buckles, and so by the time she’s finished and stepped out of them her face is slightly flushed.

“Yes. The boiler.” Katya repeats, as if she’s also reminding herself. “Want to make sure you won’t die of carbon monoxide poisoning!”

_That wouldn’t be too bad,_ Trixie thinks.

“Your sister said.” She replies. Her tone of voice seems to suck all the air out of Katya.“Can I leave you to it? Got some things I need to do.”

The _things_ in question are the episodes of The Hills she’s been binge watching recently. But Katya doesn’t need to know that.

“Of course. I’ll call for you when I’m done.”

Once safe in the confines of her bedroom again, Trixie shuts the door behind her. She leans against the wood and sighs deeply. The thin walls in her apartment do little to block out the sound of Katya moving about, her socks padding against her (in need of repair) wood flooring and the clanging of her tools as she rummages around in her bag.

Lauren Conrad looks up at her from her laptop screen, her perfectly plucked eyebrows set into a deep frown.

_Me too, girl._ Trixie thinks.

She puts her headphones in to block out the noise coming from the other end of her apartment and tucks herself back into bed. After pressing play, she leans back into her pillows and attempts to loose herself in the petty drama of LA socialites from the 2000s.

It doesn’t take long before she can hear Katya again.

_Hey there you…_

She sings, in what would hardly be described as dulcet tones.

_With the sad face, come back to my place and live it up._

It’s a song Trixie’s never heard before, but she’s not eager to hear any more of it. With a clenched jaw she turns the volume up on her laptop, drowning out the voice on the other side of her door.

After approximately one and a half episodes of The Hills (her recent method of time keeping), there’s a knock on her bedroom door. It makes her jump, and she sits up in her bed fast enough to give the most seasoned F1 driver whiplash.

“Just - give me a second.” She stutters, pausing the episode on her laptop. Soft footsteps can be heard walking away, and she breathes a sigh of relief. Slowly she reveals her body from the cocoon of blankets she’s created and sits at the edge of her bed, taking a second to psych herself up.

“Trixie?” Katya calls for her.

_Coming,_ she hisses to herself, as she slides on her slippers before leaving her bedroom. Not wanting Katya to see the mess that’s inside, she slides through the door and shuts it quickly behind her. She emerges into the living room to find Katya wiping one of her tools with an already dirty cloth. _Your cloth needs a wash,_ she thinks to tell her. But she’s not sure how that would come out.

“That’s all done.” Katya says, still working the cloth around the tool in her hand. Surely it must be clean by now.

“Great.” Is all Trixie can think to say. Katya catches her eyes flit towards the front door of her apartment, and clears her throat but doesn’t make any move to leave. Her chest visibly rises and falls as she takes a deep breath in, and a deep breath out. “Thanks for that.” Trixie says, trying to get the message across that _you can leave, now._

Still, Katya stays put. _Is there something else wrong with the apartment?_ Trixie wonders, as they look at each other in silence. _Has she discovered that I’ve been slowly poisoned by carbon monoxide?_ That might explain how tired she feels all the time. _Is she worried about the amount of appliances she has plugged in to her extension leads?_ Her step-dad would get furious when he saw how many things she had plugged in to her sockets - _you’ll burn the house down one day!_ He would yell. _Good riddance,_ she’d mutter on particularly courageous days.

“Is there anything else to do?” She prompts Katya, when the other woman doesn’t speak.

“Not really.” Katya’s not meeting her eyes, which seems out of character for her (despite the little that she knows about this woman). “You should change the batteries on your smoke alarm soon, but apart from that, you’re good.”

“Great, well…I have things to do today, so…” Trixie trails off, unable to actually say the words _you should leave._

“Is everything ok?” Katya blurts out, as if the words have been trapped on her tongue. It takes Trixie completely by surprise.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” She croaks out. Katya shrugs.

“Adore hasn’t seen you in a while.” Her hands are fiddling furiously with the tool in her grip, now. A small smile appears on her face, but it looks forced. “I think she’s a little lovesick.”

Trixie doesn’t speak. She hears herself swallow.

“You seem sad.”

Katya’s words hang in the air between them. The ticking of her clock on the wall seems deafeningly loud.

_Can Katya hear her heart thumping right now?_

“Not sure how you’ve come to that conclusion after seeing me for about ten minutes.” Trixie spits out. It comes out harsher than she intended, but she just wants Katya to _go._ Instead of getting offended, though, the other woman simply shrugs.

“No, fair.” She nods, before tapping herself on the nose as if to tell herself off. If Trixie weren’t so uncomfortable right now, she would find it endearing. She almost feels guilty for making her feel bad. “I should keep my nose out of other people’s business.”

When Trixie doesn’t respond, she carries on.

“Would you like to get food sometime, as friends?” She’s finally stopped playing with the tool in her hands and, it would seem, stopped beating around the bush. If Trixie felt surprised before, now she feels as if the rug has been pulled out from underneath her. Not a long time ago, she would’ve been elated had Katya asked her out for food. But right now, she just wants to go back to bed. She’s not even bothered by the addendum added onto to Katya’s question.

“I’m not sad.” She reiterates.

“I’m sure you’re not. Maybe I _am_ sad though, and maybe I could use a friend?” 

“I don’t know - not right now.” Trixie’s tripping on her words.

“Ok, well, offer doesn’t expire until Jan 2022. Can be redeemed in any restaurant or cafe that takes your fancy.”

Trixie offers this a small smile, and thankfully Katya starts to pick up her things. She shrugs her big coat on and takes a few seconds to do up her boots. Neither of them speak, and in the silence Trixie can hear Katya’s breathing.

The front door shuts on her after little more than a _see you around_ from Katya, and a simple _bye_ from Trixie. She leans her forehead against the door, appreciating the feeling of the cold wood against her warm skin. The elevator outside _dings,_ and she imagines Katya stepping into it.

She feels emptier than she ever has done before. And it’s not the kind of empty that can be filled with ramen noodles.

Later that evening, she tries her best to shut everything out again. The clock on her nightstand reads 9pm - her earliest bedtime yet - when she pulls her duvet up to her ears and puts her chunky noise cancelling headphones on her head. A youtube apology video plays on her laptop, from an influencer she doesn’t even know. These have become her recent guilty pleasure, and she gets a certain kick out of seeing other people as miserable as she feels.

But her mind will not be silenced tonight. She can’t focus on the crocodile tears, the calculated pauses or pleas for forgiveness. Letting Katya in to her apartment has opened her up to the outside world again. She’s not able to forget about her late rent, the unread messages in her phone, or the fact that when she tries to think of her future the only possible outcome she can realistically imagine is ending up homeless and friendless.

She pats the bed around her, trying to find her phone, before locating it under her pillow.

_Is tomorrow good for you?_

She sends to Katya.

She’s sure Katya could use a friend right now.

*****

Stepping outside the next morning is an all-out assault on her senses, not helped by a police car racing past her apartment block with its sirens blaring. There’s a bitter wind blowing, and she pulls up the collar of her coat in an attempt to cover her ears. It doesn’t work. She feels hungover, without the privilege of having had anything to drink.

They’re meeting in a restaurant not far from Trixie’s apartment, and she sets off confidently only to realise that she’s going the wrong way moments later. She’s never been to this place before (hasn’t been to many places in Boston, to that matter), but Katya convinced her with:

_It’s my favourite place_

And:

_It’s on me!_

(The last message may have made a bigger impact on her decision making)

Getting out of bed was no easier than the morning before, or the morning before that. If she’d been expecting to wake up with butterflies in her stomach or excitement for the day ahead, she would’ve been sorely disappointed. But luckily her current state of affairs means that she didn’t expect that for this morning (and doesn’t expect it for any mornings).

It took her a long time to choose her outfit today, and not just because of the weather. Her past few weeks have been spent in between tracksuits and pyjamas, and opening up her wardrobe with the need to find something _nice,_ that said _I have my life together,_ almost brought her to tears.

She put on a simple skirt (with thick tights) and an oversized jumper that hides her (ever so slightly diminished) curves. It’s the nicest she’s looked in weeks.

She cried in the bathroom once before leaving.

Her journey is punctuated with the same thoughts that have plagued her since she woke up that morning. _Cancel,_ a voice in the back of her head tells her. _Stay home, go home. What the hell are you doing?_

_Are you really going to leave your apartment just to have stunted conversation with a woman who you barely know? A woman who has obviously taken pity on your pathetic state._

But, against all odds, something keeps her moving.

She arrives at the restaurant, and is greeted by her reflection in the window. The woman staring back at her in the dirty glass looks like a shell of the person she used to be just a few months ago. Maybe it’s the weather, maybe it’s her pale skin contrasting against her black turtleneck. Maybe it’s something else.

Not for the first time that morning, she considers turning around and going home. The restaurant looks similar to the ones that would crop up in the run down areas of Milwaukee she used to live in, the restaurants she would bemoan for gentrification and pushing her rent up. It’s already crowded, with a small line beginning to form out of the front door.

But then she spots Katya through the glass. There’s a beaming smile on her face, as if, like Trixie herself, she’s surprised that she actually made it. She waves her arm in the air to the point of exaggeration and points to the empty seat opposite her. Her mouth moves as she tries to start a conversation with Trixie, who can’t hear a word of it.

For the first time in a while, Trixie’s lips are threatening to form a genuine (albeit small) smile, and she rolls her eyes in an attempt to cover it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why it took me so long to write this!! Between doom-scrolling through twitter and moving between my living room and kitchen, I've just been so busy.

As she walks over to the table, Katya puts up her hand to flag for a waitress. With a history of working server jobs to make ends meet, it’s a move that makes Trixie grit her teeth.

“Could you put the air-con up, by any chance?” She asks the waitress, with a big smile that she no doubt thinks is charming. A thick coat is already draped on the back of her chair and a jumper balled up in her arms, leaving her in only a thin cami top.

It requires a lot of self control for Trixie to stop her eyes tracing Katya’s collar bones.

_It’s winter,_ she thinks, as she looks at the sweat that gathers on Katya’s top lip. Lips that are again coated with a deep red lipstick.

“It’s winter…” The waitress trails off, as Trixie pulls her chair out to sit in it. A menu lands on her side of the table, and she flashes the waitress an apologetic smile. “I’ll see what we can do.” She says, forcing a smile. _She won’t,_ Trixie thinks, but Katya seems satisfied.

“Are you alright?” Trixie asks, once the waitress has spun on her heels to leave. Katya uses both hands to fan herself down, to little effect. “She’s right about the season. It is winter.”

“Side effect of this new medication I’m on.” A wry smile appears on Katya’s face when she replies. “Or early menopause.”

There’s a joke Trixie could make there. But she doesn’t.

The chatter around them seems to grow louder, and she’s grateful for the background noise as they both look over the menus in their hands. She’s keenly aware that they haven’t exchanged any pleasantries yet; no _hi, how are you, how was your journey._ There’s nothing she can think to say, though, so focuses on the words in front of her as if she were trying to translate them from a foreign language.

Across the table, Katya puts down her menu and Trixie can feel her gaze on her. She keeps her own eyes fixed on her menu, though, feigning a difficult choice between an extortionate plate of avocado on toast or a _small_ (in brackets) plate of pasta.

“You know,” Katya speaks, giving Trixie no choice but to look up. Her chin rests on her intertwined fingers, propped up by her elbows on the table. Large earrings dangle from her ears and catch the light as they move. “Most people ask me what kind of medication I’m on when I say that.”

“Do you want me to ask?” Trixie asks, slightly taken aback.

“It’s medication for anxiety.” Katya ignores her question, with a flourish of her hands. “I’m trying to do this new thing where I actually tell people what’s going on with me, instead of going MIA for months. I have an uncle who went proper MIA. Or - had. I don’t know what tense to use for him.”

“Were you close?”

“Couldn’t stand him. Used to call me all sorts of names when I was growing up.”

“I’m sorry.”

Katya shrugs. A bee is tattooed onto each shoulder in black ink, and they rise up and down with her movements.

“Nothing to apologise for - unless you had something to do with it?” Katya narrows her eyes. Her joke isn’t well received by her audience.

“Are you ready to order?” The same waitress from earlier interrupts the growing awkwardness between them.

Katya rattles through her order as if she’s done it a million times before. Trixie says her own, and they hand their menus over to the waitress.

“And to drink?” She prompts.

“Gin and tonic.”

“Water.”

The two of them speak at the same time and turn to look at each other.

“You don’t drink.” Trixie says once the waitress has left. It comes out more of a statement than a question, and she’s not sure why.

“Not really.” Katya answers her question that wasn’t a question, as if it were no big deal at all. Adore’s words from months ago come back to her; _Katya’s a bit of a mess._ Trixie pushes them away.

They don’t really say much more after that. Katya seems content to sit in silence, occasionally breaking it to tell Trixie about the Persian rugs her neighbour has taken to laying out in her driveway, or her new nephew who calls her _Kats._ She mentions her plan to get a tattoo of a cat in his honour, and proudly displays the blank place on her forearm where it will sit.

Trixie doesn’t enjoy the silence that surrounds Katya’s sudden bursts of conversation. Around them sit friends, couples, families all chatting away and laughing. But she realises she has nothing to talk about. Her world recently has revolved around reality TV and the odd trip to get groceries. Just a few weeks ago the thought of going to the shops overwhelmed her so much that she just, didn’t. Lived off of plain pasta and toast with butter for a week.

She’s can’t tell Katya that.

Her discomfort is also down to the feeling that there’s something unsaid between them. The reason why Katya asked if she was ok, asked to spend time with her. She’s spent a fair amount of her time in bed since their last conversation, imagining Adore talking about her to all of her friends. _Fired, depressed, haven’t heard from her for weeks._

The food placed in front of them offers Trixie a brief respite from her overthinking. The food, however, presents the same problem as everything else she’s eaten recently; it all tastes like ash. The gin and tonic, by comparison, tastes delicious. The alcohol in it goes straight to her head, and soon her straw is slurping loudly at the bottom of the glass. The sound earns her a raised eyebrow from Katya.

“I think it’s finished.” She suggests, with a little laugh. With Katya eating as if someone were coming to take her food away from her, her plate is clean where Trixie’s meal is virtually untouched.

The conversation that hasn’t become a conversation yet starts to become an even bigger thing between them, threatening to pull up a chair next to them. She flags down the next waiter she sees to ask for another drink, only remembering that she’s ordering this on Katya’s money once the waiter has left with her order.

“I’ll cover my drinks.” She offers Katya a sheepish smile, who brushes her sentence away with a wave of her hand. Red lipstick stains mark the rim of Katya’s glass of water on the table between them. She hates it when people only order water. The next question tumbles out of her lips before she has a chance to stop it. “Is there a reason you don’t drink?”

Katya’s eyes widen slightly, and Trixie’s heart skips a beat.

“You loosen up after a drink, don’t you.” There’s a small smile on her face, but Trixie still feels awful.

“I’m sorry - I shouldn’t -“

“It’s fine.” Katya interrupts her, and then her hand comes out to rest gently on top of Trixie’s. Her palm is sweaty, clammy. Her skin is softer than Trixie imagined it would be. Her thumb gently rubs the back of her hand. Trixie’s heart stops all together. “There’s a multitude of reasons.”

Adore’s voice is at the back of her mind again, but it’s a lot harder to hear with Katya’s hand on hers.

She removes her hand from Trixie’s, bringing it back to her lap. And, in that moment, Trixie’s sure she’s never felt lonelier.

“You know,” Katya clears her throat. This sends a wave of dread through Trixie as she slowly moves her hand back into her lap. She’s starting to pick up on Katya’s ticks now. Clearing her throat seems to say _I don’t want to say this, either._ “You can talk to me about things. I know we don’t know each other very well, but…well, I hope you’re ok.”

Against her will, hot tears begin to prick at the corners of Trixie’s eyes. She tilts her head up ever so slightly and relaxes her jaw, willing them to go away.

She thinks about how nice it felt to be touched by Katya.

“I’m fine.” Trixie croaks out, and Katya doesn’t press her any further on it.

She yanks down the blinds in her room when she gets home, shutting out the sunlight. She doesn’t bother to change out of her clothes before crawling into bed, the most she can do is yank off her boots and throw them into the living room.

It’s somewhere between sunset and sunlight when she wakes up, the bright light from her phone screen illuminating the room. She tilts it to see the time and stares at the messages on her screen. They’re from Adore.

Katya says she saw you

I hope you’re ok - I am here if you want to talk

******

The snow storm takes her completely by surprise.

She wakes up one morning, as groggily and reluctantly as every other morning, but this time with freezing cold toes. She wriggles around in her bed, trying to get more warmth into her body so she can go back to sleep. The cold won’t leave her, though, and as the grogginess starts to leave her she stretches out an arm to touch the radiator with the back of her hand. With a groan, she takes her hand away: it’s freezing.

A louder groan comes after she sees that her phone stopped charging during the night, a lovely little _19%_ laughing at her in the corner of the screen. After getting no luck with the light switch, she opens her blinds to let some light in. She’s greeted by snow whipping around in the air, so thick and fast that the street lamps are barely visible. All the cars on the street are covered with a thick layer of it, and one solitary figure battles against the wind with their head down.

No house on the street has their lights on, either.

Wrapped in her thickest dressing gown, she stares blankly at the scene outside. _Snow day!_ She used to exclaim, bringing out a sigh from her mother who was inevitably dreading a day stuck inside with her children. She doesn’t have any of that wonder or excitement today, though.

_What do people do in this situation?_ She wonders as she sits down on the bed. Her bottom lip starts to quiver, and it’s not because of the cold. This happened to her once before in Milwaukee, and she called her mom in tears.

She can’t call her mom this time. She can’t call anyone else, either; she’s made sure of that over the past couple of months.

There is one person who might be able to help. But she’s ignored her texts for days.

But she’s really, really cold.

She feels pathetic as she brings up her conversation with Katya, and forces herself to look away from the missed messages. The _How are yous? Would you like to do something? Earth to Trixie?_

My power’s gone out

Don’t really know what to do - think it might be the whole street

She sends, and then hesitates. She’s not exactly sure what she’s expecting Katya to do - fix the national grid? Jump up on a pylon outside and tie some cables together? She runs her finger up the screen, showing their recent messages. They’re all from Katya trying to reach her. A little laugh escapes her, almost mocking herself for thinking the other woman would respond to her now.

But Katya texts back immediately.

Don’t worry - I’ll come and have a look at it

A wave of relief washes over Trixie as she reads the message.

Finally, an adult has entered the fray.

It takes a while for Katya to reach her - although Trixie realises she’s not sure where she’s coming from. Visions of her battling against the snow and the wind and car tyres skidding on the roads flash through her mind. The frost that remains stubbornly fixed to her windows and the cold that comes with it, prevents her from feeling too guilty, though.

She’s huddled under blankets, dressing gowns and even a couple of towels when the buzzer goes on her intercom. She doesn’t have the capacity to worry about what she looks like as she walks over to the door to let Katya in, with big fluffy socks sliding on the floor and a knitted beanie hat on her head.

Katya enters with cheeks and nose red from the cold. There’s no trademark lipstick on her this morning, nor any makeup whatsoever.

Still, she looks beautiful.

Her hair is plastered to her forehead when she takes her beanie off. Soft, blonde strands of hair that Trixie wants to brush away with her fingers - if her fingers weren’t currently stuffed in mittens right now.

Katya takes one look at her, bundled up in layers as if she were setting off on an arctic exploration, and bursts out laughing.

“There’s nothing I can do.” Katya sighs, shining a torch into a fuse box. It took a few minutes for them to find the box in the first place, with Katya repeating _how can you not know where it is!_ She looks around the room. It’s gloomy and dark, even though it’s the middle of the day. “I don’t know how long it’s going to be out for. Do you have anywhere else to stay?”

Trixie looks at her, blankly. _Is that a serious question?_

“Ok then, you’re coming with me.”

“I’m sorry?” Trixie splutters.

“I can’t leave you here to freeze to death.” Katya shrugs. “I still had power this morning. Plus, I’m great company in a snowstorm.” She shuts the door to the fuse box and turns to look right at Trixie.

“I’ll be fine here.”

“You absolutely won’t.”

******

_What the fuck are you doing here?_ A voice in the back of her head hisses as Katya turns the key in her lock.

But stepping into Katya’s apartment feels like receiving a hug. The warmth envelopes her, and she feels so relieved she could almost cry. The lights are on, the TV plays in the background, and the smell of onions and garlic cooking drifts through the flat.

“Fena!” Katya calls out, as she throws her keys down haphazardly onto a side table. The surface is already covered with scattered post and mismatched trinkets.

“Yes?” Someone calls back.

“I brought home a stray.”

At that, a door opens to reveal another woman, clad in an apron and a pair of oven mitts. In her current get up, Fena - Trixie assumes - is the picture of domestic, maternal bliss. Trixie likes her immediately.

Running her eyes up and down Trixie, she gives an exaggerated sigh.

“I was hoping for a puppy.”

“This is Trixie.” Katya says, waving her arm as if she were presenting Trixie in a contest at a state fair. “Trixie, this is Fena. She’s my flatmate.”

“Nice to meet you, Trixie.” Fena smiles. Her eyes are warm and welcoming and crinkle in the corners when her lips turn upwards. Like Katya’s. “Are you staying for dinner?”

“She’s staying the night.” Before Trixie can reply, Katya jumps in. She takes the duffel bag out of Trixie’s hand and places an arm around her shoulder, gently pushing her further into the apartment.

“Does she speak?”

“Yes she -“

“Yes, I do.” Trixie lets out a small laugh. She hasn’t done that for a while.

“Make yourself at home.”

Fena tips the bottle of wine towards her glass to say _want some?_ Without meaning to, Trixie’s eyes flash towards Katya, who notices it.

“It’s good wine.” Katya says. “I got it from a client.”

Trixie nods at Fena, and the other woman fills her glass up. The sound of the _glug glug glug_ fills the room.

Their apartment is almost as small as Trixie’s. It’s messier than her’s and even more cluttered than the bedroom her younger brothers used to share. The walls of the room they’re in are an aggressively dark shade of red, and adorned with more art, sketches and _odd_ things than Trixie can look at.

But it feels like a home. Like a proper home.

“People give you wine for fixing their electricity?” She asks, raising an eyebrow. _Perhaps she should’ve gone into a trade rather than makeup._

“Not quite.” Katya laughs. “I teach classes on the side.”

“What kind of classes?”

Katya looks at her with a smug little smile.

“Pole dancing.”

She’s surprised her jaw doesn’t make a sound when it drops to the floor. Images of Katya twirling around a pole flash through her mind, and she can feel a blush threatening to creep up her neck. She turns her attention back to the food in front of her, twirling spaghetti around her fork in an attempt to appear nonchalant.

“And she has so many happy clients coming over to our apartment, _just to thank her._ ” Fena says, before receiving a small hit to the arm from Katya.

“They really enjoy the classes that m - oh.” Realisation dawns on Trixie. She starts to see the apartment in a different light, now. The red paint on the walls are seductive, seedy. The mess perhaps a product of late night hookups that just couldn’t wait until the bedroom. She imagines Katya pressed up against their coat hooks, a stranger’s hand running up her thigh.

She imagines it’s her hand.

“Yes, thank you Fena.” Katya clears her throat, oblivious to the thoughts inside Trixie’s head right now.

“You can hardly call it a secret when you’ve slept with half of the women in Boston.”

That earns Fena another jab, but this time she shoves Katya back. They continue to jostle around like children, as Trixie mulls over _half of Boston,_ until Katya’s phone rings.

“Is that one of them?” Fena raises a playful eyebrow.

“No.” Katya sticks out her tongue, as she scrapes her chair away from the table. “But I _do_ have to take this. Be nice to Trixie.”

She leaves the table and goes to shut herself in another room, phone tucked between her ear and shoulder. _Hey, Hi,_ Trixie can just about hear her say before she shuts the door behind her.

Now that it’s just her and Fena at the table, she’s grateful for the music playing gently in the background. Its courtesy of Katya, in a language that she can only assume is Russian. She busies herself with her food, pushing the spaghetti around her plate instead of picking it up on her fork. It’s the first time she’s had a proper home-cooked meal in a long time, and she feels an obligation to at least pretend to enjoy it.

“Don’t worry if you’re not hungry.” As if she’s read her mind, Fena says. She pours a little more wine in her glass, and Trixie flashes her a grateful smile. Katya’s side of her conversation can just about be heard mumbled through the walls, and Trixie wonders what was so important that she had to shut the door.

“How do you like Boston?” Fena asks, before the silence has a chance to grow between them. “Katya told me you moved here recently.”

_I hate it,_ is what Trixie thinks. The snow that turns into brown slush, the buses that never run on time and sometimes decide to skip her stops, how impossible it is to make friends and alienating it is to see other people doing the impossible; making friends.

“It’s fine.” She replies, taking a sip of her wine just so she has something to do with her hands.

“When I moved here I called home _every_ _single night_ in tears.” Fena laughs. “My parents joked about cutting off my phone bill.”

“How did you meet Katya?” Trixie asks, getting away from the subject of _parents_ as fast as she can.

“We went to the same yoga class together.”

The thought of Katya attending yoga classes, being relaxed, calm and mindful doesn’t fit in with the Katya that she has constructed in her head. But the thought of her stretching in a yoga class, clad in tight sportswear, is a welcome addition to the Katya she has constructed in her head.

“Do you like working at MAC?” Fena asks when Trixie doesn’t respond. At that, Trixie’s heart drops to her stomach. The woman opposite her carries on, oblivious. “I worked there for ten years.”

“It’s, yeah. It’s fine.” Trixie stutters. She takes another sip of her wine. The cogs in her mind spin, trying to think of another way to change the subject. But she doesn’t stand a chance.

“Is Jeffrey still there?” Now Fena’s leaning forward in her chair, excitedly. She wants all the gossip.

“I don’t know, sorry.” Trixie can feel how tense her body language has become, but there’s nothing she can do about it.

“What about Aja? God, Aja was something.”

“Yeah, she’s still there.”

Fena takes that as an encouragement to start rattling off what seems like the entire MAC workforce. All Trixie can do is offer a grunt here and there, mutter _yes_ or _no_ or _I don’t know._ She stops taking any of it in, and she can feel her chest beginning to tighten. She tries to squash the panic building, but it’s to no use.

“I should see if Aja wants to do something,” Fena starts to say, trailing off when she notices the tears gathering in Trixie’s eyes. Her face falls immediately. “What’s wrong? Is it Aja?”

Shaking her head, a tear escapes her eye and she wipes it away with her sleeve.

“ _Ugh._ ” She mutters, a groan of disgust directed at herself. She lets out a small laugh at how pathetic she is, and then the tears really start to flow. There’s nothing she can do to stop them now, and Fena looks on with eyes wide and full of concern.

Shoulders shaking, snotty nose and shuddering breaths. Trixie’s fully aware that she is in _ugly crying_ mode. A box of tissues is thrust towards her by Fena and she grabs it, gratefully. The tissues come away from her face wrinkled and crumbling, which only makes her cry more.

“We buy cheap tissues, I’m afraid.” Trixie looks up to see that Katya’s returned to the table. She’s biting her bottom lip, her face a picture of sympathy. “Do you want a hug?”

After taking some deep breaths in, Trixie is able to respond. Her words are punctuated by hiccups.

“That - _hiç -_ will just make - _hic -_ me cry more - _hic_.”

The rest of the evening is spent in front of the TV, once Trixie calms down. Neither of them push her very hard for an explanation, taking the hint from the first time Trixie insists _it’s nothing_ (her words sound fake even to her own ears). But Trixie doesn’t miss the not-so-subtle worried looks they exchange each other for the rest of the evening.

A film from the 70s that Katya picked out, one she’s never heard of before, plays on the TV. But she can’t focus on it at all, overcome with embarrassment for what happened at dinner. It’s a relief when Katya suggests they should head to bed.

Katya stops just short of tucking her in. The bedsheets - freshly changed just for her - still smell of fabric conditioner, and she presses her nose to the fabric to breathe it in. There’s a roll outmattress at the foot of the bed, that Katya was absolutely insistent on sleeping on, leaving her bed to Trixie and Trixie alone.

“Goodnight.” She flashes a gentle smile at Trixie before turning the lights off at the wall. After they’re plunged into darkness she hears Katya make her way to her makeshift bed on the floor, a process that involves a couple of bumps and whispered swear words.

“Night.” Trixie replies, as her eyes adjust to the darkness. There’s a thin sliver of light coming from the curtains in front of Katya’s window, and snow can still be seen swirling around outside. Her eyes feel sore from all the crying and there’s a dull pain in her head that a pint of water couldn’t even get rid of.

_She’s never going to want to speak to me again,_ she thinks, remembering what a snivelling mess she was just hours earlier.

She shuts her eyes, tight. Growing up, when her mom and step-father’s screaming matches would become too loud to sleep through, she would invent a happier place to go to. A better version of herself, who was cooler and prettier and had the money for nice clothes. It didn’t matter too much where she was in her imagination, sometimes it was New York, sometimes a tropical island, sometimes it was just the mall with her friends. It was just anywhere but home.

She tries to do it again, to imagine herself as anyone but herself.

“I might sound like a broken record,” Katya speaks out of the blue. “But if you want to talk about anything, I’ll listen.”

Her voice is so gentle, so full of concern that Trixie has to choke back a sob. Her fingers grip the duvet and pull it above her mouth, trying to muffle the sounds that are threatening to escape.

It feels stupid, when there is someone just a few feet away from her, that she feels _so_ _fucking alone._

“I feel _so_ _fucking alone_.” She says out loud. Her voice is thick, and it doesn’t even sound like it belongs to her. The words come out with such a force that she’s surprised there’s any air left in her lungs to breathe.

“Do you want a hug?” Katya repeats her offer from before, but this time it sounds like she won’t take _no_ for an answer.

_Mmmhmmm,_ Trixie mumbles, unable to say anything else for fear that she might open the floodgates again. There’s a lot of shuffling and stumbling coming from Katya’s side of the room, but soon the other side of the bed is dipping down under her weight. The duvet shifts as Katya clambers in, and a slender arm wraps around her waist.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW - panic attack in this chapter 
> 
> Are we all clapping for the bing bang bong, the sing sang song and the ding dang dong?

“I don’t know what to do.” She says, honestly and openly in a voice that is small and shaky. Her arms are around her legs, folded at the knees, hugging them into her body. Biting her lip, she rests her chin on her knees. She doesn’t have the energy to hide how she’s feeling anymore, but baring her soul still isn’t easy. Her body language reflects that.

On the other side of the bed, Katya takes a deep breath in, letting her cheeks puff up before she exhales.

“About what?”

“I…” Trixie begins to say, before trailing off. _Where does she start?_ Her throat feels like it’s about to close up, and she forces herself to swallow. Hot tears begin to prick at the corners of her eyes, but she doesn’t want to cry again.

“Listen, you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.” When she sees Trixie clumsily wipe at her eyes with her forearm, Katya says in a soft tone. She starts to fiddle with the bedcovers. They’re in a bold black and white pattern, with a deep red throw hanging off the end of the bed. Their aesthetics could not be more different. “But have you thought about therapy?”

The dreaded word: _therapy._ Various school councillors tried to get her to open up in the past, to talk about the reasons behind her poor attendance or poor performance. They would always seem to tiptoe around the real issues, scared of opening the can of worms that would require them to do _actual_ _work_. Everyone of them started with high hopes, turning quickly into sighs during their sessions or disappointed looks when she walked through the door.

She also can’t afford it, remembering the letter that came through the post to let her know her health plan was ending. The letter ended up ripped into shreds and scattered in the kitchen bin. She hasn’t taken the bins out for a while.

“I don’t have any health insurance.” Trixie replies. She tries to pass it off with a shrug, a shrug that says _it’s not a big deal_ and not _it’s totally fucking scary._ The bedsheets rustle as Katya shifts next to her, as they did all through the night. It turns out that she does not lie like a log. Between them rests the hot chocolate she fixed Trixie, still steaming hot. A little of the liquid spills onto the sheets as she moves about, but Katya doesn’t seem to mind.

“There’s a load of services out there that don’t require health insurance.”

_You don’t understand!_ Trixie has the urge to wail.

“I can’t afford it.” She says, simply. But Katya doesn’t get the message.

“There’s lots of affordable ones - “

“I _can’t_ afford it.” Trixie snaps. Fluffy white snow still gathers around the edge of the window in front of them. The sun never really rose, so it hasn’t had a chance to melt yet. Katya’s fingers start picking at bobbles on the bedsheets, almost aggressively now. She picks up the mug of hot chocolate balanced precariously on the bed and wraps both hands around it. Steam rises up from it and she breathes it in, deeply. “I lost my job.”

“I know.” Katya says, sheepishly. She’s not meeting Trixie’s eyes as she runs a hand through her hair. _Another nervous tick,_ Trixie thinks. “Adore told me.”

A loud, abrasive laugh escapes Trixie. _She knew all along_.

“Did she tell you why?” She can hear the attitude in her voice, and has to remind herself that she’s currently in Katya’s apartment, currently in her bed. That the other woman has been nothing but nice to her - _too nice,_ nicer than she deserves. The woman next to her shakes her head, before scraping her hair up into a rough bun. Stray strands of hair hang down from it, framing her face.

“Just that she was worried about you.”

Trixie imagines Adore talking to her. Biting her lips, her nails. Running through their text messages together. The two of them talking about her.

“I can’t even pay rent at the moment.” She finds herself saying. _Not something you should say to your Landlord’s sister,_ she thinks, before shutting her eyes tight so she can’t see Katya’s reaction. Her heartbeat starts to quicken, her mind races through everything Katya could be thinking in that moment. _She’s a bigger mess than I thought,_ Trixie would be thinking right now. She hears herself speak again. “Fat lot of good a therapist will do if I’m living on the streets.”

“I …” Sounding as if she’s choosing her words wisely, Katya trails off. “I told my sister, asked her to give you some time.”

“I didn’t need you to do that.” For the second time that morning, Trixie snaps. A flash of anger hits her, aimed more towards herself than Katya. Anger that she’s created a situation where Katya would feel the need to step in. She really must look as pathetic as she feels. The other woman’s eyes widen ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly, and a wave of regret washes over Trixie. She takes a sip of the hot chocolate in her lap, now cooled down enough to drink, in an attempt to swallow down the anger that’s risen up in her as much as the hot chocolate itself.

“And anyway,” She carries on, trying to move swiftly away from the tension she’s created. “You’d met me, what, twice? That’s quite something to do for someone you barely know.”

Katya pauses, and a brief flash of worry that she’s _ruined everything_ floods through Trixie. But then she simply shrugs.

“Adore likes you, a lot.” She explains. “And she’s a pretty good judge of character.”

Neither of them seem to know how to carry on the conversation after that, with both heads bowed and eyes looking anywhere but each other. It doesn’t take long for Katya to pull her laptop out from somewhere and plonk it down on the bed in front of them. It’s small and covered in crumbs. Stickers decorate the back of it, but Katya opens it before she has a chance to get a proper look at them.

“What do you want to watch?” Whilst furiously typing in a long password and making no attempt to hide it, she asks Trixie. Her back is hunched over the laptop, with the thin camisole on her body showing every ridge of her spine. Trixie has to refrain herself from answering with anything from her giant catalogue of comfort reality TV programmes, and simply mumbles an _I dunno._

She lets out a little snort once Katya takes charge and puts on one of her favourite shows. The other woman looks back at her, quizzically. She didn’t have Katya down as a reality TV person. She imagines her attending matinee performances of foreign films, renting Film Noir DVDs from the only video shop left in Boston - if one exists. Not getting invested in Beverly Hills drama.

“Nothing.” She says.

Her heart stutters to a halt as Katya settles into the pillows beside her. Close enough that Trixie can feel the way her body moves when she breathes, feel the heat radiating off her skin, smell the shampoo in her hair. She tries to focus on the show and not the way Katya looks when she concentrates, the crinkle in her nose when she laughs, how white her teeth are when she opens her mouth to smile. More than once she’s almost caught staring, whipping her gaze away from Katya’s side profile as the other woman turns to look at her.

The TV show soon becomes background noise to the thoughts in her head. Still wrapped up in the conversation they just had, her mind keeps straying, wandering, fixating on things she would rather not think about. She feels raw. Like there’s an open wound somewhere on her body, bleeding out ever so slowly.

Her phone dings - a rare occurrence these days - and she roots around under the pillow for it. Someone on the screen in front of them bursts into tears, brought to breaking point by the people around her. The text message on the screen is only a message from Dominos - a 50% offer that leaves her wondering whether she should spend the last of her money when she is safely tucked away in her own bed.

Regardless, she opens up her phone anyway. After a little look at Katya next to her, checking that she isn’t paying any attention to her, she brings up the internet and types _therapy, Boston_ into the search bar. A second later she adds _cheap_ to the search, and presses go.

Plenty of results come up from her search. She reads the brief description under each link, her thumb running up and down the page. Something’s stopping her from actually clicking into them and she shuts her phone screen with a sigh.

“Do you go to therapy?” She blurts out. The question takes her by surprise, and she sneaks a look at Katya out of the corner of her eye. A small smile appears on her face.

“I have done in the past.” She answers, without taking her eyes off the dinner party drama in front of them. Trixie pictures her lying on a chaise lounge, spilling her secrets to a Freudian man.

“And now you’re cured?” Trixie asks, wryly. As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she regrets it. But Katya doesn’t even blink.

“Now I do other things.”

“Like yoga?”

“Like AA meetings.” She says, frankly. For a few seconds the world seems to stop. Just long enough for Trixie to curse herself for being so _stupid._

“I’m sorry - I shouldn’t have - “

“You didn’t do anything. I brought it up.” Katya interrupts her incoming flood of apologies. Finally, she tears her focus away from the Real Housewives and looks at Trixie. The look on her face is one that Trixie’s seen before, one that seems to say _don’t worry._ A few beats pass before either of them speak again.

“Well, if you ever need anyone to talk to…” The words sound hollow to Trixie’s own ears, so she trails off without finishing the sentiment. _What fucking help would you be?_ She asks herself.

“I’m not going to turn to you, no offence.” A wry smile accompanies Katya’s comment.

Despite an early text from Katya’s sister to say that the power is back on in her flat, they don’t leave Katya’s bed for the rest of the morning. Every time she thinks that she really should leave, unburden Katya with her presence, she is pulled back in by the warmth in the bed (and how nice it is to have company). She looks for any sign that Katya might want her gone. But, instead, she’s treated like a princess, with the hours that pass filled with toast and drinks brought to her lap. _I’m not much of a cook,_ Katya apologises, as she passes her a plate of toast that firmly resides in the wrong side of burnt.

Eventually Katya rolls out of the bed they’ve shared for the past few hours. Her feet land on the floor with a _thud,_ and she shrugs a hoodie on. Zipping it up to just below her chest, she turns to Trixie. _Her eyes are up there,_ Trixie reminds herself.

“I have a class this afternoon.” She says, and rubs her hands over her face. _I’ve overstayed my welcome,_ flashes through Trixie’s mind. “I’ll give you a lift home.” It isn’t a question, or an offer.

She waits in the bed as Katya has a shower. Listening to the sound of the water thundering against the floor, trying to keep her mind from thinking about it running down her body. Outside the window, blue skies look back at her. Sun shining, snow melting.

Sometimes weather like this only serves to make her more miserable.

With Katya concentrating on the ice that still clings to the roads, their drive to her apartment is spent in a comfortable silence. When they pull up at the side of the road, Katya turns to her before she’s even managed to unbuckle her seatbelt.

“I’m going out with Adore and Bianca on Tuesday.” She says. A twinge of anxiety tugs at Trixie, and her mind already starts racing through possible excuses. “Drinks are on me, if you want to come - or Bianca, depending on how generous she’s feeling.”

She hasn’t got any excuses, any reasons for not going, apart from _I don’t feel like it._

“Think about it.” Katya shrugs, when she doesn’t respond. “I’m just a text away.”

“I’ll think about it.” It’s as non-committal as anything, and she reaches for the door handle before she has to say anything else.

*******

Think about it, she does. In fact, she can hardly think about anything else for the next few days. Her immediate response was a hard _no, thanks._ The thought of stepping into a bar, of seeing people - seeing _Adore_ again…Staying in seemed much more appealing. But something in her said _yes. You’ll regret it if you don’t,_ she thought to herself as she stared at the ceiling above her bed, sick of the empty feeling in her stomach after another night alone.

So, in a moment of madness, she texted Katya to say _yes, I’ll come._

Tuesday now looms in her calendar, and every day that passes brings more anxiety. _Ridiculous,_ she thinks sometimes. Ridiculous that she has gotten to a point where the mere _thought_ of a social situation fills her with dread. It feels not unlike the nerves she would feel before an exam, the nausea in her stomach and lump in her throat. She misses the friends she used to have. The ease with which she could talk to them, laugh with them, meet up with them.

As it gets closer her inner monologue runs rampant, insisting _it will be good for you_ one minute and filling her head with doom the next. She flits back and forth between coming up with an excuse and cancelling, and the alternative of _actually going._

Her current way of life is unsustainable. She knows that. But she doesn’t know if she’s ready to do anything about it.

When Tuesday arrives, she tries to avoid thinking about the evening as much as possible. Fills up her brain with meaningless TV and youtube videos, mind-numbing stuff. Katya messages her with a time and location, which she gives a cursory glance before putting her phone out of sight and - she wishes - out of mind.

The time for her to get ready comes around, accompanied by a weight on her chest. She drags herself into the bathroom and turns on the shower, turning the temperature dial up a few notches higher than normal. She takes her time in the shower, and even contemplates shaving her legs. A meaningless gesture, but one that might give her a crumb of confidence. But the temperature outside is still below zero, so she puts down the razor and steps out of the shower once she’s run out of reasons to be in it.

Sliding her wet feet into her slippers - it’s too cold to stand on the floor barefoot - she wraps a towel around herself. Her stomach is full of butterflies, and she looks forward to the glass of wine (or two) she’s decided to allow herself before she leaves her apartment. But first, she has to get ready.

The bathroom mirror is clouded by steam. Wiping her hand over it, she reveals a face with blotchy red skin from the heat and frizzy wet strands of hair that fell out of her bun. With a clenched jaw she reaches for her moisturiser and starts to undo the lid when she just, stops.

She can’t do this.

Her chest is tight, her heart is racing. The room feels so incredibly small. A look in the mirror is met by teary eyes, a panicked expression on her face. She stretches a free hand to her neck, trying to remember how to swallow.

_I’m having a panic attack_ , she thinks, before sitting down on the edge of the bath. Her knuckles turn white as her fingers grip the sides of it in an attempt to keep herself steady.

Time looses its meaning. It could be a few minutes, it could be an hour, it could be a couple of days that pass before she feels her heart rate start to slow down. Even more time passes before she is able to properly think again. Gently, gingerly, she stands up. At some point the towel had slid down to reveal her body and she pulls it tightly against her skin again, both for warmth and to prevent herself catching sight of bare body in the mirror.

Slowly, she makes her way out of the bathroom and towards her phone charging on her bed. There’s another message from Katya on it - _still up for tonight? -_ and when she sees it she lets out a giant, heaving sob.

_No, sorry._

She replies.

The next morning she wakes up feeling fragile. _You had a panic attack_ , she reminds herself. It’s been almost ten years since her last one, brought on by an oral exam in her Spanish class. She still can’t speak a word of Spanish.

Ideally, she would lie in bed all day (and the days that follow). But then her doorbell rings. _Katya?_ Flashes through her mind, before she can admonish herself for being so stupid. _Why would she be here? And why would you think that?_

The doorbell rings again, and she gets out of bed with a groan. Taking a quick look in the mirror, she smooths her hair down. _It’s not going to be her,_ a voice at the back of her mind hisses. But another part of her brain wanders, imagining opening the door to a mop of blonde hair and dark red lipstick. After she opens the door she has to push down the quiet disappointment she feels. The postman stands on the other side of the door, holding a package for her neighbour. _Sure_ , she croaks out, after he asks if she can take it in for them. She’s never met her neighbours.

Her overwhelming desire is to go back into bed. To stay in the dark and hide under the covers, but she doesn’t want to be left alone with her thoughts. So she gets dressed into her warmest clothes. A thick knitted jumper, a tight thermal underneath it that feels like a hug. Two pairs of socks on her feet and a pair of tights beneath her jeans. She shrugs on her puffer coat, shoves a chunky beanie hat on her head and plugs her headphones into her ears.

She doesn’t know where she’s going, but she steps out regardless. The cold air hits her like a slap in the face, but the sun is warm on her skin. She turns up the volume on her music until it’s just below unbearable. She walks, and walks, and walks. Down streets she’s never been on before, through neighbourhoods she’s never explored. Walks until the cold makes her nose run and sweat runs down her back. _Gross,_ says the little voice at the back of her head.

When she reaches the river she stops. The wind whips her hair around and she yanks her beanie further down in an attempt to stop it. The river stretches out far and wide in front of her, choppy waves lapping at the wall beneath her. A few boats sail along it, defying the cold. Propping her arms onto the handrail, she takes a deep breath in. _I could just jump in,_ she thinks. _But that wouldn’t be a very nice way to die._

She wants to wail. Wants to scream. Wants to cry her heart out, watch the seagulls flee from her and the boats turn away from her.

Instead, she sits down on a bench behind her and shoves her head into her hands.

She can’t go on like this.

*********

_Cheap Therapy, Boston_

She types into the search bar - on her laptop, this time. On second thoughts, she changes _cheap_ to _affordable._ A blank notepad rests on her legs and she twiddles a pen between her fingers, ready to take notes. The end of the pen already has marks from where she’s chewed it and she puts the cap on the top as the search results come flooding in. She’s trying to take this seriously.

The glass of wine on the floor is a treat for afterwards. The carrot on the stick.

Soon the notepad is filled with phone numbers, addresses and - this is the part where she has to take a deep breath in - _quotes_. _Why are you considering therapy?_ Almost all of them asked at some point in the conversation. At first she mumbled some vague reasons - loneliness, sadness… _etcetera._ She could almost see the other woman’s lips purse at that last word. A few (many) sips of wine - so she didn’t wait until after, _shoot her -_ had her loose enough to start putting real terms to it. Depression, anxiety. _Social_ anxiety.

When the wine turns into dregs at the bottom of her glass, she considers messaging Katya. She’s been too anxious to look at her messages since cancelling on her, a move that has only served to make her more stressed. If she’s serious about getting better, then she needs to start opening up to people. Katya is the only person who knows a little of what she’s going through, so she seems like a good place to start.

The wine in the fridge will just go off if she doesn’t finish it (an excuse that she’s borrowed from her mother), so she goes to the kitchen to help herself to another glass. She wonders what Katya’s doing now. If she’s with anyone, if they’re just a friend or something more. If there’s someone else sharing her bed tonight.

She shakes her head, trying to shoo away the thoughts. They’re only replaced by the memory of Fena joking over their dining table. _Slept with half of Boston,_ she joked.

And yet Katya doesn’t want her.

Meanwhile, she only seems to be falling harder for the older woman. She can’t rely on someone like that.

There is _someone_ else she can talk to. Crossing that bridge is going to require another glass of wine, though.

Opening the fridge reveals depressingly bare shelves and she makes a note to do some proper grocery shopping the next day. Green things and food with actual nutrients. She’s feeling hopeful.

Well, semi.

Once she’s filled up her glass and made her way back to the sofa, she puts her feet up and nestles into the cushions. She pulls out her phone and takes a big mouthful of wine. Then she starts typing. She composes a message. Reads the message. Deletes the message. She repeats that process several times, wondering if she should add more, say less, or even send a message at all. Trying to work out if the language she uses is too flippant, too honest, or not the right amount of apologetic. Her chest tightens every time she gets close to actually sending something.

_She probably won’t even read it,_ says the nasty little voice at the back of her head. Sometimes alcohol gets rid of the negative thoughts. Sometimes it makes them worse. She takes another sip, and forces herself to try another message.

Her last attempt is met by a frustrated groan. She throws her phone down onto the floor and rubs her face with a shaky hand. If only Adore knew what turmoil she had gone through to try and reconnect.

She doesn’t see the message from Adore until noon the next day. She left it out of sight on purpose, trying to reduce the risk of scrolling through social media. _One day soon,_ she resolves, _I will delete myself from everything._ It was only when she came to look up a recipe that she noticed it.

_You ok?_

Stares back at her from her phone screen. Her eyebrows furrow in confusion and she opens up the message. It follows a message she doesn’t remember sending, a bunch of letters jumbled together. She must have sent it by accident.

She leans up against the kitchen counter. One of onions she’d left resting on the countertop rolls onto the floor with a _thud,_ but she pays it no mind. Both hands grip the phone, thumbs poised at the ready.

_Not really_

She types out, and then presses send before she can stop herself.

_I’m sorry_

_Can we talk?_

Feeling like a weight has been lifted off her chest, she lets her head fall back and rest on the cupboard behind her. She feels a twinge of anxiety - _what if she doesn’t reply?_ But still, she lets out a little smile.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is a pretty nice chapter and I hope you enjoy it

With her stomach doing somersaults, she looks around the restaurant to locate the nearest toilets. The seat opposite her remains empty, and the longer it stays that way the more anxiety bubbles in her chest. _Adore’s always been late,_ she reminds herself for the _God_ - _knows_ -nth time. She bats away the waitress again, pretending that she’s content with only tap water for the time being. If she were her waitress, she would be tearing her hair out right about now.

The seconds pass agonisingly slowly. Every time the door opens sends both a wave of relief through her and a stab of fear. She’s not sure if she even wants Adore to turn up at this point.

She’s almost given up completely, turned her attention to the loose bit of skin around her thumbnail, when the chair opposite her is dragged out. The _screech_ it makes against the floor gets her attention immediately, and she looks up to find Adore wearing a sheepish smile.

“Sorry I’m late.” She grimaces, her eyes wide and asking for forgiveness. She’s infuriatingly endearing as she unwinds the thick scarf around her neck. Perfume wafts from her and Trixie inhales it, deeply.

“25 minutes.” Trixie remarks, and then quickly adds: “Which isn’t bad for you.”

“Thought I’d give you a taste of what it’s like to wait on a friend.” Adore smirks, as she chucks her coat on the back of the chair and slides into the seat. It’s a gentle dig, but it has an immediate effect on Trixie. Her shoulders relax, her jaw unclenches, and the knot in her stomach starts to loosen. Adore has set the tone for the afternoon, and Trixie’s relieved.

“It’s good to see you.” She says, and she means it. There might be a pool of bile at the bottom of her stomach, threatening to climb all the way up her throat, but Adore is like a ray of sunshine.

“It’s good to hear from you.” Adore replies. There’s a wide, playful smile on her face and a new set of bangs hanging above her eyes. The cut is choppy and uneven, as if she’s done it herself. Trixie wouldn’t put it past her.

Seeing someone else at her table, the waitress pounces on them. Without even looking at the menu, Adore orders a bottle of wine for the table. _This is why I like you,_ Trixie thinks. After they order their food, the bottle arrives in a bucket of ice. Condensation forms in the glasses when the waitress pours it in, and Adore pretends to swill it around her mouth before shrugging and mumbling _tastes good to me._

As her mind runs through possible conversation topics, Trixie takes a sip. Though normally talkative (to the point of annoyance), Adore now just grins at her from across the table. A big, stupid smile.

Trixie clears her throat. It feels tight, like something’s lodged in there.

“I’ve been driving my mom crazy.” Adore says, just as Trixie opens her mouth to speak. She’s not sure what she was going to say. “I was _convinced_ we must have done something or said something over Christmas.”

This time, Trixie opens her mouth to protest, but Adore carries on.

“I know what she’s like when she drinks, and I may not always remember what I’m like when I drink, but I’ve heard stories. You just started getting so weird after Christmas, I thought we must have really offended you. Then you stopped coming to work and _oh my god_ , poor Aja had to listen to me every shift…”

_Verbal diarrhoea,_ Trixie remembers Aja saying about Adore.

“Anyway, they’ve got this new girl in. She’s nowhere _near_ as good at makeup as you were, but she’s not bad I suppose…”

Listening to that, Trixie’s heart sinks. At some point she was planning on asking Adore about the possibility of getting her job back, but it sounds as if she’s already been replaced. And she can hardly blame them.

“You know what? I was shocked - _shocked! -_ when Katya said she saw you. At some point you’re going to have to tell me how you could dare meet up with Katya before you even _spoke_ to me.”

Adore comes to a sudden halt. Trixie is still trying to process the fact that she won’t get her job back. That putting the pieces of her life back together won’t be as simple as completing a puzzle. But Adore’s next comment brings her back into the present.

“You still like her.” A smug look comes over Adore’s face as she leans back in her chair, proudly.

“No I don’t!” Trixie splutters. _Lies, lies, lies._ She can feel her cheeks burning immediately. “I never said I liked her in the first place.”

“You didn’t have to.” Adore cocks up one of her eyebrows, still irritatingly smug. Trixie grits her teeth. “Just be careful with that one.”

_Just be careful with that one._ Trixie thinks about Katya. With her nice apartment, her job and her classes. How helpful and capable she seems. How much of an adult she is compared to herself. Sure, she might have her issues, but doesn’t everyone?

Plus, she doesn’t like her _that much._ If she wanted to stop, _really_ wanted to stop, she could.

“So…” Adore leans forward and cups her chin with her hands. Her plump cheeks bunch up, making her look even younger than she is. “What have you been up to?”

Giving herself some time to think, Trixie takes a big swig of wine before answering. The wine tastes acidic in her mouth, but she forces herself to swallow (and hides the grimace that she wants to make). Where does she start? With the TV shows she’s been watching religiously? The days she forgets to open the blinds before it’s sunset again? Or the panic attack she had at the thought of going out?

“Nothing much.” She shrugs.

“ _Nothing?_ Trixie it’s been _months._ ”

If Adore says anything after that, she doesn’t hear it. Out of nowhere, she can feel her heart rate escalating, her chest constricting, as suddenly their surroundings start to sway in front of her eyes. It’s become unbearably hot and she fumbles with the buttons on her cardigan, trying to take it off as fast as possible.

She has an inkling of what’s happening to her, but she doesn’t want it to happen again. Certainly not in front of Adore. She reaches for a glass of water on the table and downs it in a few large gulps. She’s faintly aware of Adore still talking at her.

“Can we leave?” She interrupts whatever Adore was saying, and doesn’t wait for her response before standing up. The chair behind her wobbles with the force she used to push it away. _We haven’t even eaten!_ Adore protests, but Trixie pays her no mind. Yanking her coat on, she just about croaks out: “I’ll meet you outside.” Before making her way through the maze of tables and chairs towards the door.

All she can think is that she _needs_ _air_.

When she gets outside, she takes a big, shuddering breath. Her hands shake as she pulls on her mittens and she uses them to rub her face, not caring about smudging her eyebrows. She leans against the brick wall and concentrates on her breathing. _In, and out. Nice and slowly._ Smoke from someone’s cigarette wafts towards her but she doesn’t care.

By the time Adore joins her outside she’s just about managed to pull herself together. Using the camera on her phone, she’s fixed her makeup and smoothed the hairs around her face. There’s a bit of snot on her mitten, and she rubs it in with a grimace.

“What was that about?” Adore sighs. She pulls a cigarette out and tips the box towards Trixie, offering her one. After a moment’s hesitation she takes it, gingerly. Tucking her hair behind her ears, she leans forward into the lighter that Adore holds out and takes a deep drag in. She remembers watching her step-dad smoke in the house, finding loose strands of tobacco on the soles of her feet at the end of the day. _That will never be me,_ she used to think.

“Nothing.” She answers, pulling back from Adore. The cigarette tastes foul in her mouth, much worse when you don’t have a few vodka and cokes in you, and she runs her tongue around her teeth. The younger woman puts her free hand on her hip, as if to say _really?_ Smoke curls out of her mouth and into the air. She looks a lot cooler than Trixie when she smokes.

“I just paid for two meals we’re not going to eat, Trix. I need more of a reason than _nothing.”_

“I’m sorry, I’ll pay you back.” Trixie mumbles, but she’s met with Adore’s dismissive hand waving her offer away.

“Don’t be stupid.” She sighs. “How about we get some coffee to walk with? I downed the rest of that bottle before I left so I need something to sober me up.”

Reluctantly, she tells Adore a little of what she’s been going through. It’s a very sanitised version of the real thing, closer to a children’s story than real life. It starts with _sad_ and ends with _worried._ To her credit, Adore doesn’t push her for anything more. Doesn’t launch into an interrogation like Trixie was afraid she would do. She just, listens.

She opted for a hot chocolate instead of a coffee, not keen on a sleepless night spent agonising over her actions. It’s warm in her hands, and the steam shows in the cold air. Adore walks beside her with another cigarette lit between her fingers, offering a gentle _mmhmm_ or _uh huh_ here and there.

“So you in the restaurant - was that a panic attack?” She asks, looking at Trixie with big doe eyes.

“I think so.” She knows so. There’s a small pause between them, before Adore says:

“So you’re pretty fucked up right now, huh?”

Which elicits a sudden burst of laughter from Trixie, so loud that a couple walking in front of them turn to look at her.

“I don’t know if that’s the politically correct term for it.”

“I wish you’d told me what you were going through.” Adore sighs. _What could you have done?_ Is on the tip of Trixie’s tongue, but she keeps her mouth shut.

Puddles on the pavement are still covered in a thin layer of ice and she navigates them carefully as the two of them walk on in silence. When a car isn’t whizzing past them she can hear Adore’s breathing beside her. Every now and again Adore skips over the grates on the floor or nudges her out of the way to avoid a particularly large crack. Adore seems deep in thought, which isn’t a common occurrence. Occasionally Trixie sneaks a look at her, wondering what she could be thinking about or when she’s going to speak next.

“You know,” Adore says, eventually. “I know someone who’s looking for a makeup artist.”

Trixie raises her eyebrows to say _go on._

“She runs a small beauty salon, sometimes goes to people’s houses, you know the drill. Mostly weddings which might be a bit boring, but maybe you’d get some fun weddings? I don’t know how well it would pay, but -“

“Yes.” She interrupts Adore before she can say anything else. This is the most hopeful she’s felt in a while. “Yes yes yes yes yes.”

“Ok, but you can’t flake on her.” Her friend insists, eyes wide to get her point across. “Kim thinks I’m really cool, and I want to keep it that way.”

******

For the first time in what feels like forever, there’s now an important date in her calendar.

_Interview with Kim Chi, 10am tomorrow._

Adore arranged it all, something she was grateful for at the time but now worries that it makes her look like a child. Her mom once went through a phase of dropping in to all the general stores and diners in the area to ask if they had a job for her daughter. She would always wait in the car, sliding down in her seat as far as the seatbelt allowed her too.

To say she is nervous would be an understatement. Over the past few days it’s felt as if her stomach has launched into an entire gymnastics routine, complete with flips, jumps, and splits. She’s even googled her symptoms, convinced it could be a serious illness. All she got was the usual _cancer_ diagnosis, though, and slammed her laptop screen shut with a groan.

The contents of her wardrobe lie scattered on the floor around her. She’d started her search with the intention of finding something formal, something smart, something that says _I’m a capable young adult._ A quick search into _Kimchi Cosmetics_ revealed a business that was anything _but_ formal. Adore compared her to bubblegum, whilst pretending to retch.

She’s been at this for over an hour, now, and she hasn’t even planned what makeup she’s going to wear. Over the past few months her face has seen little more than a flick of mascara, but, by the looks of Kim, she’s going to need a lot more than that. Something bold, something confident.

And she’s feeling the opposite of that, right now.

With a groan, she lets her body fall onto the pile of clothes on the floor. Most of them carry the musty smell that comes with staying in a closet for two long, but a couple of pieces still smell of her mom’s laundry detergent. It’s little, it’s insignificant, but it’s enough to bring a tear to her eye. She lets out a shuddering breath and sits up sharply. Determined not to cry, she wipes the corners of her eyes and rubs her nose with the back of her palm.

Defeated by her clothes, she makes her way over to her vanity table. The table is an old desk left by the previous tenants, now weighed down by her mountain of makeup. Most of this makeup she stole from work. A small mirror sits in the middle of the desk. Once clean, it’s now covered by a thin layer of dust. She uses a face wipe to clear it before sitting down, throwing the wipe onto the floor when done.

For as long as she can remember, she’s loved makeup. When she was little she would sit on the edge of the bath, feet dangling in the air, to watch her mother transform her face before dates. She started sneaking it into her bedroom when she began to get acne, when she used to care about what the boys at school thought of her. She remembers her mom catching her, and how worried she was about getting into trouble.

_“_ If you’re going to wear makeup,” Her mom said. “You need to know how to wear it properly.”

They spent a whole evening going through it. Trying out different lipstick shades, applying different eyeshadows. She wishes she could talk to her now.

It’s not long until she finds herself pacing around her bedroom, the skin around her eyes raw from rubbing off makeup multiple times and her mind racing. It’s already late at night, the sun having gone down many hours ago now, and she still doesn’t know what to wear. That’s just the tip of the iceberg. Beneath the tip is a swirling mess of insecurities, all threatening to resurface just in time for her interview tomorrow.

_I could cancel,_ she thinks. She could wakeup tomorrow, send a text and bury her head under the duvet for the next few days. The thought is so tempting it almost makes her salivate.

But then she thinks about Adore. Thinks about how she’s trying to get her life back on track. She can’t keep throwing a spanner in the works. 

Tired of pacing, she sits down on a mound of clothes. She pulls out her phone and types a message to Adore with one hand, the other hand propping up her miserable face.

_I don’t think there’s any point in me going tomorrow_

She sends. Because that’s what this is all about.

As the little bubble comes up to show Adore typing, Trixie allows her body to fall back onto the floor with a gentle thud.

_Don’t be stupid. Go!!!!!!!!_

With a groan, Trixie drops her phone on the floor when that message comes through. _You don’t get it!_ She wants to scream. Wants to take Adore by the shoulders and shake some sense into her, and then do the same to herself.

Shutting her eyes, she lies on the floor as the clock in her room keeps ticking. She’s not sure how long she lies there for, motionless. She wants to cry, she tries to cry, but nothing comes out. She wants a hug from her mom. Hell, a hug from anyone would suffice right now.

Phone held above her face, the bright light making her squint, she types out a message.

_Are you free?_

She presses _send._

_Free as a bird_

Katya replies immediately.

“Hey.” She says solemnly down the phone. With a sigh, she moves to lie down on her bed and puts Katya on loudspeaker, ready to wallow in her misery.

“Hey.” Katya replies, mimicking the seriousness in her voice. Trixie only sighs in response. “Is everything ok?”

She hates how worried Katya sounds. Hates how often she seems to elicit it from Katya. She imagines Katya on the other side of Boston, eyebrows furrowed and teeth nibbling at her fingernails.

“I’m kinda freaking out about tomorrow.” Her voice comes out in a groan of disgust, as if she’s disgusted at herself for feeling this way.

“What’s tomorrow?”

“I have a job interview.”

“Oh, that’s exciting!” Katya exclaims. From the other side of the phone she can hear Katya clapping.

“Exciting is not the word I would use for it.” Trixie replies, dryly.

“What word would you use?” That sentence is followed by the sound of a lighter flicking, and a long inhale from Katya.

“Are you smoking inside?” She asks, before she can stop herself. Her tone sounds accusatory, and she winces as soon as the words are out of her mouth. Really, she’s picturing Katya lying on her bed scantily clad, cigarette dangling from her red lips. It’s hot, and she hates herself for thinking that.

“Smoking something.” Katya mumbles, her mouth clearly preoccupied with something else.

“Oh.” Is all Trixie can think to reply. From Katya’s end of the phone, another voice comes through. _I’m gonna go now,_ someone whispers. Her stomach sinks, only to drop further when she catches Katya whisper _bye, babe._ After letting a few seconds pass, she says to Katya: “Hey, if you’re busy I can -“

“Not busy at all, Trix.” Katya interrupts her, before taking another drag of whatever is in her hands.

“Was that a client?” With Fena’s comments about Katya’s love life ringing in her ears, she tries to make a joke.

“Huh?”

“The person in your room.”

“Oh, no, just a friend.” Katya brushes her off. She takes a long drag this time, and Trixie pictures the smoke swirling out of her mouth. “But back to my question, how are you feeling about tomorrow?”

_Right, tomorrow._

“Dunno.” Trixie shrugs. “Existential dread, a sense of inevitable doom, ready-to-shit-my-pants fear?”

There’s a big pause before Katya replies. She can almost hear her thinking.

“Those are big words for someone from the Midwest.”

“Sorry, forgot I need to dumb down my vocabulary now I’m in Boston.” She replies, after shoving her head into her pillows to stifle a laugh. “I’ll speak…very….slowly…for ….you.”

This brings out a laugh from Katya that she can only describe as a _cackle._ Objectively, it isn’t attractive in the slightest. But she’d be lying if she said it didn’t make her heart beat faster.

“So, you’re feeling nervous?” Once she’s regained her composure, Katya asks.

“That’s an understatement.”

Again, Katya gives a long pause. Could Trixie not hear her breathing down the phone, she could be forgiven for thinking that she’s hung up.

“You know what someone once told me about anxiety?” Trixie suppresses the urge to let out a big _ugh._ She doesn’t like Katya saying the word _anxiety. “_ Oh crap, what was it…”

There’s another long pause between them. Long enough for Trixie to fetch her nail file and return to the bed again. She’s just started on her ring finger when Katya exclaims:

“Ah!” She shouts, so loudly it startles Trixie. “Trixie, where are your feet?”

“What?” She cranes her neck to look at her feet, kicked up in the air and clad in soft, fluffy socks. The debris from her nail file falls onto her bedcovers and she blows it away.

“Where are your feet?” Katya repeats, before taking another drag.

“Is this some weird, fetish thing?” Trixie asks. Once in college she’d been offered money for pictures of her feet. She didn’t go through with it, but sometimes she thinks about what she could have bought with those (tens) of dollars. A pizza maybe. “Because I’ll hang up -“

“Just answer the damn question.”

“Great therapist you’d make.”

“ _Trix_.”

Running a hand through her hair, Trixie sighs.

“Ok, my feet are on my bed.” She gives in, reluctantly.

“There you go.” Katya replies proudly, as if she’s achieved something. “On your bed, in your apartment. Tonight. They’re not in tomorrow. They’re not in a job interview that hasn’t happened yet.”

There’s another pause between the two of them.

“So…I dunno…Keep your head where your feet are. Or something like that?”

When she finally finishes her point, Katya sounds as confused as Trixie feels.

“Jesus,” She says on an exhale. “I hope you’re not charging me for this session.”

Katya lets out a wheezy laugh, one that turns into a cough after she takes another drag of her joint. Yet again, Trixie feels her heart start to beat faster. _Stop it,_ she chastises herself. 

“Too late, bitch.” Katya just about squeezes out as she tries to catch her breath. “I’m sending my invoice right now.”

Trixie lets out a loud laugh, and as she does so she realises how much lighter she now feels. The bedsheets rustle as she flips onto her back to relax, letting herself melt into her pillows. Out of the corner of her eye she catches the time on the clock and winces. _So much for a good night’s sleep,_ she groans internally. The sensible thing would be to say goodnight, set an alarm and hope for the best. And, as a mature and responsible adult, that is what she resolves to do.

But her resolve lasts mere seconds, the amount of time it takes for Katya to take another drag and speak again.

“Do you wanna hear about the woman in my class today who I’m 98% sure shat herself on a pole?”

A small smile appears on Trixie’s face as she chooses to ignore the time. After all, sleep deprivation is sleep deprivation.

They continue talking for almost an hour. Katya gives a detailed description of the poor woman whose fart most likely wasn’t just a fart, and their conversation only gets worse from there. With a finger curling around her hair, legs kicking in the air every time Katya makes a joke, and just outright _giggling,_ Trixie’s fully aware that she’s a caricature of a teenage girl.

Eventually, as Trixie’s chest starts to hurt from laughing so much, Katya puts an end to the conversation.

“I think I’ve probably kept you for too long.” She says, ruefully. Trixie enjoys that narrative, the idea that _Katya_ was the one making her stay. “This was nice. Sometimes I get quite lonely at night.”

_You have no idea,_ Trixie thinks, but she doesn’t say it out loud. The openness with which Katya talks about herself surprises her.

“Thank you, Katya.” She replies. “I feel a lot better now.”

“Anytime, Trix.” Katya speaks softly, but then perks up as she exclaims: “Let me know how tomorrow goes! Best of luck.”

After hanging up, Trixie sees the call time. _1 hour, 28 minutes._ She doesn’t remember laughing that much in a long time, and yet she’s still dreading tomorrow. Whilst her feet may be on her bed tonight, tomorrow they will actually be in an interview. And what then?

But she can’t deny her overriding feeling right now. One that she can only describe as _warm._ And the heating went off hours ago.

_Fuck,_ she thinks.


End file.
